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Project REDWOOD: Part 3

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A Deadly Premonition Fan Novelization
CHAPTERS 10-14
_____________________

CHAPTER 10: EYEWITNESS ACCOUNTS

TIME AND LOCATION: 12:02, Greenvale Forest Park
WEATHER REPORT: Slightly cloudy
FORTUNE: "The nature of a goddess lies in her duality."

"Now boys, don't play too hard. You need to conserve your energy for... Some people are going to stop by and ask you some questions. Okay?"

"What does conserve mean, grandpa?"

Jim Green wipes his face with a handkerchief and tries to think of a good answer. Two pairs of wide hazel eyes look up at him, seeming to change color in the shifting sunlight coming through the trees.

"It means... Well, it means to protect."

"Oh. Kind of like how you protect the forest?"

Jim smiles and ruffles Isaach's moppish light brown hair. "Yes, exactly."

Isaiah, not wanting to be left out, speaks up. "Are we gonna get to con... conserve stuff when we grow up?"

"That's right."

"Oh. Cool!"

The twins run off a short distance, laughing at some private joke. Jim watches them, trying not to think about what lies just on the other end of the wooded path to his right. They're in a clearing of sorts, and it would be the ideal place to hike with one's grandsons if it wasn't for the bright yellow police tape strewn everywhere like the toilet paper remains of some teenage prank. The boys are ignoring all of it, however, content to explore the insect-riddled contents of an old log that used to be an enormous pine tree last summer before a big thunderstorm brought it crashing down here. He listens to their voices, bubbling over with curiosity and wonder, and curses the man he is scheduled to meet.

Five minutes later, he hears the sounds of an approaching vehicle trundling down the road. It's a sound he isn't very accustomed to; usually he's deep enough in the forest that all he can hear is the rustle of wind through the leaves, and the chirrup of birdsong overhead as he makes his rounds. Car doors open and shut, and then three figures are walking towards him, twigs crackling under their feet.

Jim raises his hand, feeling tense. "Emily, George. And you must be..."

"FBI Special Agent Francis York Morgan," the newcomer says, flashing something and putting it back in his suit pocket before Jim can make out what it is. "Call me York. Everyone calls me that. And you must be Jim Green?"

"That I am, son. I'm the park warden, I keep these woods."

"You're doing a fine job of it, too. How long have you been working here?"

"Well, I used to be a tree surgeon," Jim replies, scratching his head. "I've been here ever since the park was established in 1968 by Mr. Stewart. Little history lesson there, for you."

The man raises an eyebrow. "Harry Stewart owns this land?"

"I did tell you he bought out pretty much everything," George mutters. "Most of Greenvale is built on his property."

FBI Special Agent York puts two fingers to his head and stalks a short distance away. Jim can hear him mumbling to someone not in the immediate vicinity. "Did you hear that, Zach? This whole forest, a rich man's personal playground. These country millionaires are something else!"

Jim looks at Emily and George for guidance, but they just look blank. He feels strangely resentful towards this stranger with the scarred face and the odd colored eyes, but there's nothing to be done. Hopefully he'll get what he wants soon, and leave Jim and the boys alone.

Eventually, Agent York spots the twins sitting on the fallen log, examining a ladybug with impenetrable fascination. He heads over to them, Jim jogging to catch up, not wanting York to be alone with the boys for a second.

"And these two first discovered the body," York says, pointing at the kids as if they're zoo animals.

"Yes, my grandchildren. Isaach and Isaiah. You may have met their parents, Keith and Lilly Ingram? They run the Milk Barn over on the west side of town."

"Can't say I have," York says absently, still staring at the twins. "Which one is which?"

"I don't think that's relevant," Jim says stiffly. He doesn't tell York that Isaach is the one in the green shirt and Isaiah is wearing blue, though it would be easy enough to do so. He doesn't know why he's withholding this information, but he can't see how it would help solve the case, so why tell a stranger?

Unwittingly, Jim thinks back to the morning it all started. He and the twins had been taking their daily walk through the wood path on the west side of the park. The weather was crystal clear, the air cool and crisp enough to be refreshing, but not so cold that jackets were necessary. Isaach and Isaiah had run on ahead, Jim stopping to trim a few weeds growing under a signpost with a pair of clippers he always carried on these outings. He'd heard the boys fall silent, conspicuous given their chattering just a moment before, so he'd gone to investigate. He took a right into a clearing, saw the boys standing together at the foot of a thick, gnarled tree, staring up at something. Jim followed their gaze, not knowing what was holding their attention so raptly, and for a second he still wasn't sure what he was looking at...

The tree was old, perhaps even ancient. Its leaves had been stripped away over time until all that remained was its twisted trunk, stark branches raised to the heavens as if in supplication. And just above their heads, pale arms bound by wire to some of the sturdier boughs, hung the body of Anna Graham.

She was naked from the waist up, though her long hair fell in waves across her unmoving chest. Red velvet fluttered in Jim's vision as he darted forward, sweeping the kids under his arms and shielding them from the sight. His breath came in sobs, and he didn't know how long it was before the police arrived. He must have called them from a pay phone, though he didn't know how coherent he'd been. Later, he was told that his voice was perfectly steady, so at first Deputy MacLaine hadn't known anything was wrong. Jim doesn't remember any of it, though. The last thing he does remember are the faces of Isaach and Isaiah, looking over his shoulder at the pale figure crucified above them, the lower half of the body wrapped in fabric stained a deep, dark red. The twin's eyes were shining, huge, almost rapturous , and then the sirens came.

"I'm sorry, but could we talk away from the boys?" Jim says. "I'd like to help, but I don't want them hearing this."

George nods at Emily, who starts to lead the twins from off the log. Agent York's voice cracks like a whip in the slightly humid air.

"Hold on! Don't do anything without consulting me first."

Emily looks up, the two boys gripping her hands. "Agent York?"

"These kids are our first witnesses. I want to talk to them."

Jim is shocked. "Come on, they're just children! They have no idea what really happened!"

"That doesn't matter. Their input is still valuable."

"How heartless!" Emily cries. "Do you ever think of other people's feelings? Ever?"

"Emily's right, Morgan. That's stone cold, even for the sake of the investigation. What could they tell us, anyway? Children at this age aren't known for providing reliable witness accounts."

York begins to pace, waving a finger in the air like a mad orchestra conductor. "Children see things in pure, simple terms, George. They may have caught something we adults, with our filters and blinders on perception, would never notice. Besides, they're here at the request of an agent from the Federal Bureau. Consider this a direct order. All of you."

"Are you serious?"

"I never joke about matters like this," York says, smirking. Even peaceful, nature-loving Jim wants to rip off his tie and strangle him with it, but that would be just one more concession to the scum of the outside world that the twins would be exposed to. He backs down, wiping his hands on his handkerchief as if trying to rid them of something foul.

"Fine. Just make it quick, and watch what you say. I'll be listening."

"Don't worry. They aren't as fragile as you think. Right, Zach?"

York comes around to Emily's side of the log and bends down to look the twins in the eye. They cock their heads quizzically, like attentive sparrows. "Hello, boys. My name is York," he says cheerfully, badge tucked out of sight. "Can I ask you a couple of questions about what you saw in that clearing over there?"

Isaach and Isaiah are intrigued by this new introduction to the familiar woods in which they've grown up. To them, adults are like trees: Tall and strong, always watching over them, but forever keeping secrets. Emily, Sheriff George, and even Grandpa Jim, none of them like to talk about what they see. This one seems different from the others, though; he's not really like a tree, more like a forest pool, the kind that looks only a couple of feet deep until you dip in a long stick and find that it never reaches bottom. That's what York is like, they both agree. A deep, still pool, its waters shimmering green, the color of his eyes.

"Sure, mister, we'll answer any questions you have. Fire away!"

"Yeah, fire away!"

"Thank you. Now then, tell me what you found at that tree."

"The big red one?" Isaach says.

"The one without any leaves?" Isaiah says.

"That's the one."

They ponder. Then-

"Anna!" they say in unison, their eyes lighting up. Emily feels Jim flinch next to her, and resolve to give York a stern lecture on tact the next time they go out.

"Anna was so pretty," Isaiah sighs. "She had on a red dress."

"The sun was shining through her hair."

"Bright gold hair!"

"There were lots of animals around her, like, um, squirrels, weasels... And..."

Isaiah interrupts his brother in his excitement. "A snake! A real, live snake!"

"It went all over Anna, but she didn't wake up. I don't think girls like snakes, anyway."

Jim puts his face in his hands. Emily moves to comfort him. York and the twins don't look up, lost in their own private universe.

"We didn't know it then," Isaach says with the staunch conviction of a six-year old.

"But we know it now!" Isaiah finishes. York waits for elaboration, gets none, and prompts them gently.

"What is it you know, Isaach? Isaiah?"

The twins reply at the same time, round faces alight with joy.

"Anna was the fairy of the forest. She was a goddess!" Their laughter pours into the clearing like a flutter of silver butterflies.

"She smiled when she saw us," Isaiah nods.

"She looked so happy..."

York stands up, one finger tapping at his collar. He looks towards the mass of police tape blocking off the path to the tree where Anna was found, a faraway expression in his eyes.

"That's right, boys. She was a fairy, a goddess..." he murmurs. "I'm sure she's playing with her animal friends, even now."

"Course she is!"

"Yeah, of course she is!"

Jim and Emily take this opportunity to swoop in and rescue the twins from any further interrogation, but York is already finished. He smiles at Isaach and Isaiah as they wave at him from behind Jim's legs.

"Thank you, boys, for the most helpful information. Well, as for the rest of this little outing... It's time to take a look at that tree. Emily, George, you can accompany me if you want. But it really doesn't matter."

"You won't get rid of us that easily," George growls. "We need to stick around to make sure you don't screw anything else up."

Emily thanks Jim for his time, an apology lurking somewhere behind her blue eyes, then she trots off to follow George and Agent Whatsisface under the police tape and disappears from view. Jim lets out a long, slow breath he hadn't noticed he was holding. His entire body feels drained and weak; he sits on the log and stares at the ground, wondering what will become of their small town now that death has entered Greenvale. Isaach and Isaiah run off to investigate something or another, and it's only until their cries are at a distance does he realize that Agent York never interviewed him, the only adult witness. Only the twins had been questioned...

Above his head, the clouds gather, and rain begins to fall from the sky.

________

CHAPTER 11: THE TREE OF ANNA

TIME AND LOCATION: 12:17, Greenvale Forest Park
WEATHER REPORT: Sudden sporadic light showers
FORTUNE: "Some women want men to worship the ground they walk on."

Isaach and Isaiah Ingram. Twins, sans haloes and wings, currently under the custody of the groundskeeper here. Wonder what the parents are up to. What the hell were they doing in my dreams, Zach? The angels have landed, and they're here in Greenvale. As befitting messengers of the Lord, they're the first truly cooperative people we've met since coming here. Their grandfather seems like he could be a nice guy, but he doesn't seem to trust us very much. He must have been a fantastic tree surgeon in his day.

All right, we'll finish this conversation later. Time to set up a profile before this damned rain washes everything away. You know, it's amazing that scientists, with all their cutting edge technology, still haven't figure out how to control the weather. Even in the movies, it's always portrayed as a bad thing that only a crazy person would do. Like Superman III, or Back to the Future II... Hmm, let's try to think of one that isn't a sequel. What about Our Man Flint, 1966, starring James Coburn? A bit before our time, sure, but I used to be obsessed with spy movies as a kid. I guess becoming a federal agent was the next best thing.

The tree Anna was found hanging from is different from the pines and oaks surrounding us. I can tell that much, even with my limited knowledge of plants. It's strangely thick in the truck, and its branches look like claws grasping at the sky. I can see marks on the branches where the wires binding Anna's arms were tied, but the area seems to have been picked clean.

At the base of the tree, an unusually lush carpet of red flowers the color of blood spill across the grass. Their petals give off a strong smell as they soak up the rainwater, and they don't appear to be growing anywhere else. I pick one by the stem and a thick, dark juice oozes out onto my fingers.

"Are you going to get this show started or what?" George walks up behind me as I put the flower in an evidence bag and seal it shut. "Or are you planning to make us wait in the rain all day again?"

"You're the one who followed me here," I say, scanning the ground for more clues. "I didn't say you couldn't wait in the car."

"Emily and I should just drive back to the station without you. Then maybe you'll start taking help when it's offered," George says, stalking off again. Then I hear him call at a distance: "It's a long walk back to Greenvale, Morgan!"

We don't need his help, Zach. Getting the monarchy involved would only hinder our progress. Even Emily, though I'm sorry to say it, probably wouldn't be of much help either. Profiling is a delicate art and a rigorous science, and it's important to keep the scales in balance.

Walking around the tree, the smell of the flowers grows overwhelming. Look, there are two round patches here where the flowers lie broken and crushed. Their juices have not yet dried, or the smell has been reactivated by the rain. Given that we know nothing of the flower's biology, this adds nothing new to our timeframe. But I think it's safe to say that this much damage could have only been caused by the murderer, during or after the act of tying Anna to the tree.

I wave Emily and George over and point out the indentations. "Take a look at this. Those aren't footprints."

"No, they aren't. Although we have reason to believe there were footprints around the area, the rain made it impossible to take accurate samples."

...Brilliant, Zach! "They must be knee prints!" I exclaim. "The killer tied Anna to the tree, then fell to his knees, right where those dents are. And look-"

I bend down, picking something out of the flowers near the left impression. It's sticky with black syrup, about the size of a fingernail. I almost wouldn't have noticed it, but you always spot the things I miss. George and Emily look at the object in my palm, obviously clueless about its importance.

"It's a rusted metal chip," Emily says finally. "So what?"

"Ten points for observation, zero for interpretation," I say, bagging the chip as well. "We'll get back to that later. What other evidence did you find here in my absence?"

"The evidence is at the station, but I brought a photo album if you want to look."

"Please do, Emily. George, Zach and I will continue surveying the area."

"Okay, but I have to warn you, it isn't much..." Emily runs towards the car, slim arms pumping as if she's running track and field. A strangely girlish run for someone so practical. George points out some other spots of interest, none of them turning up anything meaningful, until she comes back with the photos.

The binder is laminated, but I still have to shield it from the rain with my arm to prevent water from pooling over the images.

"Hmm... A broken heel from a red high stiletto shoe, and... What's this?"

I point to what looks like a torn piece of a photograph. The quality isn't great, being a copy of a copy, but I can just about make out the blurry image of a broad-shouldered man with his face turned away from the camera. A strange circular symbol is inscribed on his back, the same symbol we saw imprinted in Anna's hand at the autopsy.

"We don't know either. Appears to be a man with some kind of tattoo. No telling who it could be, or if he's even from Greenvale. That fragment was found in a bird's nest, believe it or not, so who knows where it came from originally."

I turn the binder upside-down. Haven't seen one of these in a while, Zach. See? The tattoo looks like a peace symbol, an inverted version of the kind our hippie neighbor wore on his t-shirts when we were kids. "Fight the power, little guy!" he'd always yell at us from his porch, and "Stick it to the man!" You thought he was funny, Zach, but he kind of scared me, to tell you the truth. Dad chased him down the street once after he tried to offer us a joint. Ironic, that we'd end becoming the very embodiment of "the man" he was telling us to overthrow, but hey, we never lived through the sixties.

George finally comes up with a useful piece of information regarding the stilettos. He leads me around the clearing, pointing at certain areas. "Here, here and here. Before the rainstorm, the ground was pockmarked with tiny pinholes, about half an inch deep. We're pretty certain that this is where the shoe that heel belonged to came into play." We end up back at the tree, next to the indentations. "From what I gather, he hung her from the tree, then put on Anna's shoes. He was really enjoying himself, the sicko. Then he knelt down in front of her, and..."

"Oh stop," Emily says, wincing. "I don't even want to hear what you think he did to her."

"You certainly have a vivid imagination, George," I say. Though it's an interesting theory, don't you agree, Zach? We should introduce him to that Hollywood producer, Joel whatshisname. He'd have to cut us in on the movie profits if it ever got made, of course. "Profiling is a little different than writing a screenplay, though. An interesting idea doesn't make it a factual one."

Zach, it's time to clarify things for our bemused audience. I hand the binder back to Emily and light a cigarette, the rain finally having eased up at some point during our search. "The perp knelt for a reason other than simple perversion. And those weren't Anna's shoes, or at any rate, the killer wasn't wearing them when he dragged Anna here. You said the heels had left holes in the ground about half an inch deep before the rain washed them away. If the killer had been male, a heavyset man like we saw in the photo, the indents would have been much deeper, especially in the soft, wet soil."

"But you're assuming the perp is male," Emily objects. "Not to mention, it's a pretty big leap to say that the man in the photo had anything to do with this. We don't even know if that photo was Anna's."

"Ah, but the symbol on the man's back matches whatever it was Anna was clutching in her right hand at the time of the killing. As for the murderer's gender, pardon me if I reiterate what I said earlier about fragility, but how many women in this town would be strong enough to tear open someone's stomach with a knife, then haul the body up into that tree while wearing stiletto heels the whole time?"

"So who was wearing the heels, then?"

"We have a third party on our hands, Emily. A mystery woman, possibly related to the murder, but not directly so. George, would I be right in guessing that the pinholes got more spread apart as they went further away from the tree?"

"Yeah, they did," George says, surprised. "How did you know?"

"Our Miss Stiletto Heels saw Anna's body and broke her heel getting out of this place. But nobody runs from an object of worship. She's not the murderer... Perhaps another potential victim who was with Anna at the time of her death, or an accomplice who fled the scene for some reason. But whoever she is, she is also the one who took that item Anna was holding so tightly in her hand."

"But why?" George asks, trying his best to make sense of it all. "Why did she leave her here?"

"Only Miss Stiletto Heels herself knows that," I say, blowing smoke. "My guess is that she also knows the identity of the man with the tattoo on his back. How many women in this town wear shoes like that, do you think?"

"Oh, I should think most have at least one pair. I do too, before you ask," Emily says wryly. "But nobody would come all the way out here wearing them, except..."

"Diane Ames," George and Emily say at the same time. Just like the Ingram twins.

"Well, don't keep me in the dark. Who is this elegant lady?"

"She's the owner of the local art gallery. Right now, she's out of town for a big art auction. She'll be back in a couple of days."

"So she has an alibi, at least."

"Not exactly," Emily says in a slightly disapproving tone. "She was definitely in town the night Anna was killed. She took off not soon after, didn't tell anybody."

"Well, we'll have to give her a warm welcome home. There's no reason to suspect she might not return, is there?" I smile, wondering in the back of my mind where to put my cigarette out.

Emily seems deep in thought. "Agent York. You mentioned something about worship. Are you meaning to tell us that the killer knelt in front of Anna... to pray?"

"You're quick, Deputy Emily. I'm glad you figured it out, because I completely forgot to mention it."

"Maybe he was asking God to forgive his sins," George suggests, but we don't think that's quite right. It's like the twins said: Anna was a goddess. The unknown subject, or "unsub", knelt down and offered up prayers to the tongueless, carved-open body from whom he'd wrested all spirit... He subconsciously transferred his own fanaticism into the empty vessel, transforming poor dead Anna from a corpse into an object worthy of worship.

"But for every place of religious ritual, for every sacrifice, there must be an altar..." I take out the bag with the rusted chip in it and dangle it so they can both see the contents. "Where in town can you find something like this? Perhaps an old, abandoned building... Lots of metal, or metal machinery. Something like that?"

Just like with Diane, there's no hesitation or variation to either George or Emily's response.

"The old lumber mill!"

Emily's eyes widen. "So we're talking about the site of the murder itself," she says, awed by the idea.

"Makes sense," George nods slowly. "That place was shut down years ago, shortly after Deputy Wyatt joined the force, in fact. Plenty of metal left to rust there."

"That settles it then. Emily, George..." I spread my arms and look up into the belly of the sky, where Anna's tree claws at it with iron-colored branches. "Could you guide me to this perfect setting for extravagant murder?"

We get back into the car, George driving this time, conversation giving way to a quiet cogitation as we all think about what we might find at our destination. Despite my theatrics, Zach, we both know what the key to all this may be. Let's not share it with the others yet, but it fits with the profile so far. Who could so brutally mutilate a beautiful young girl, then display such powerful adoration after her death? As with everything to do with this case so far, the answers come in twos. That upside-down peace symbol... Peace, and... What was that other word our neighbor was always spouting, Zach?

That's right.

Love.

And love makes the world go round.

_____

CHAPTER 12: TRAILER PARK BOYS

TIME AND LOCATION: 12:24, trailer
WEATHER REPORT: Sporadic light showers
FORTUNE: "The strength of a family unit comes from meaningful bonding experiences."

"Son, I'm going over to Sallie's to check up on her. You wanna come with?"

Richard Dunn pokes his head in, sees Quint jumping up from where he'd been tinkering with the bright orange Kawasaki Ninja resting on its kickstand in the corner of the trailer.

"Jeezus, dad! You might've knocked first before bargin' in like that!"

Richard laughs at the outrage on his son's face. "What's got you all jumpy like a jackrabbit? I'm your dad, not some psychopathic serial ki-"

He falls silent, at the same time Quint's face grows pale under the brim of his hat. After a while, Richard says quietly, "I didn't mean that. My mouth just took off without me, just like it always does."

"I know, dad."

Another too-long pause. These gaps, Richard fears, are getting wider every day, have been ever since the murder. But he knows he's lying to himself again. They've been growing way before that, maybe even as far back as when Quint was just turning fourteen, on his way to becoming a man, when things with Lisa started going bad. Four long years later, and Richard is back where he'd started, practically a bachelor again. No commitments or responsibilities besides running the dart bar and keeping his head above trouble; easier now that he's older, and a little bit wiser.

Quint, though, makes these plans to lie low somehow more difficult. Richard always feels a strange sort of longing looking at the boy, not sure whether it's Lisa he's missing, or Sallie, or just a slow-burning desire to jump in a time machine and go back to when he was that age, still able to fool around as he pleased, messing around with busted up cars from Lysander's junkyard and trying to avoid his father's clumsy fists as they sailed drunkenly through the air towards his head.

Well, maybe sometimes the past isn't worthy of nostalgia after all.

Quint is staring at his father with a funny expression. "Did you just come in here to space out, or is there something you wanted?"

"Don't take that tone with me, son. I asked you the first time: I'm headin' over to Sallie's, make sure she's still okay. You coming or what?"

Richard sees Quint's eyes dart over to the motorcycle, then back up to his father's face. He doesn't exactly manage to make eye contact.

"Well, uh-"

"All right. I get it. You keep foolin' around with that damn machine of yours; I'll be back in an hour or so. Don't wait up for lunch."

Richard slams out, the unreasonable anger in his gut boiling away under the light gray skies, leaving nothing but a faint trace of remorse. No real reason to get mad at the kid for being just that- A kid. Hell, Richard of all people should be the last to accuse anyone of being selfish or uncharitable. Maybe it's just the gaps that frustrate him, those ever-expanding potholes that force him to leap ever farther in order to reach his son. He wonders when the day will come that he's no longer able to make the jump, and forces himself to cut off that train of thought. He tries instead to fill his mind with images of the woman he's going to see, her blonde hair and the slow, lazy laugh that had all but disappeared since Anna's death... By the time he's in his car, speeding down January Way with the radio set to some stupid jazz station, they seem to blend together in his mind, Quint and Sallie, Sallie and Lisa, Anna and Quint, a low-key whirlwind of sadness and guilt that's just strong enough to keep him within its orbit, but not strong enough to move him forward...

Alone once more in his trailer, Quint Dunn plops down on the couch with a groan of horror. A near miss, every time. He's really got to find a more private place to hide the stuff, or not only will he be in deep shit, Becky will get in trouble too. He can't have that, especially since she's the only reason he's doing any of this.

Wanting to punish himself somehow, he digs in the pocket of his jeans and withdraws the tiny package he'd been about to drop in the fuel tank of his bike just before his dad barged in. A small Ziploc bag, filled halfway with a red powder, barely enough to coat a baseball in. But it's more than enough, it's more potent than any of the other stuff Quint's seen being dealt around the back of the school, and now that he's graduated, he and his bike can go on tour. A few round trips to some of the other hot spots around the surrounding area, and he'll have enough scratch to get out of the game just as he is getting into it. He just needs enough money for one thing, just one, and then as soon as he's got it, that's it. Over. Finito.

The thought of having a solid plan comforts him, and he gets up to drop the bag in the tank as planned. Just as he's doing so, he catches sight of a police cruiser just outside the trailer park. Panicking, Quint drops the bag directly into the hole without first securing it to the fuel cap.

"Goddamnit-"

He swears, just as he realizes the cop car isn't stopped at all, it's just slowly passing by, observing the speed limit just like every do-gooder driver in this town. Quint is all about speed, so to him, any slavish observation of the rules of the road is bound to look sluggish. He curses again and goes out to find something to dig the bag out with. It's raining steadily, adding to his foul mood as water drips off his hat and down the back of his neck. He has to keep reminding himself of why he's going through with all of this.

Dammit, Becks, he thinks, resisting the urge to call her cell. Get home as fast you can. I don't think I can sit much longer on this, I hate doing this without you, god, please come home now...
____

CHAPTER 13: LUMBER MILL BLUES, PART I

TIME AND LOCATION: 12:24, Moyer's Lumber Mill
WEATHER REPORT: Steady rainfall, possible thunderclouds
FORTUNE: "Avoid dark places such as mine shafts, or you will come to regret it."

The lumber mill looms like the husk of an ancient, long-dead creature in the police car's windshield, the glaze of rainwater on the glass giving its silhouette a wavering, ethereal quality. Bits of machinery and metal scaffolding, blackened from years of heavy industrial use, jut outwards from the main building, furthering the impression that some massive insect had shed its exoskeleton here and then moved on, leaving the discarded shell to rust. York gets out of the car and looks up at it, awed beyond words.

"Pretty scary place, right?" Emily walks over to stand beside him, looking more than a little chilled, and not just because of the weather. "Like George said, it closed down soon after I became deputy. Even when it was still operational, back when I was in high school, I've never been inside."

"Doesn't exactly look like the ideal place for a field trip."

They have to raise their voices above the sound of the rain, each drop amplified as it strikes every hollow and strut of the structure's steel exterior. George ambles up, eyes shadowed under his hat. "Deserted buildings are perfect for criminal hideouts and activities," he grunts. "Harry inherited it from his father, and he let it go to pot. I keep telling him to have the place torn down, but..."

"But it's a little late for that." York feels Zach scanning the area for any signs of a struggle. "After all, it's already been used as the site of Anna's murder."

"You don't know that for sure, Agent Morgan. We all know you're a hotshot city detective, but even you can't leap to conclusions without hard evidence. And a bit of rusted metal is hardly grounds for a homicide."

Emily agrees. "You do seem very confident about all of this." York laughs softly.

"Confident? No. Confidence is being trapped between ignorance and desperation. I'm merely tracing a pattern, that's all. All crimes are based on a pattern, and it's my job to reconstruct those events based on natural conclusions drawn from the facts we have seen."

Emily shrugs. "Sounds like being full of confidence to me."

"He's full of something, that's for sure," George says under his breath. "Can we please get on with it?"

Flashlights out and guns drawn, the three venture in through the front gate and into the damp darkness of the mill. Even after being shut down for only a few years, the place looks like it's been abandoned for centuries. Every surface is coated with a thickening layer of grime that refuses to be washed away by the spouts of water pouring in through the leaky roof. Wherever the beams from their flashlights hit, they see dark patches like dried blood, rust having eaten through the metal until it looks like swiss cheese. Stacks of felled logs form an untidy maze, and York is reminded of his nightmare in the hospital morgue. Perhaps this place is haunted by the ghosts of trees, forever waiting for their turn to be cut up into cordwood, never truly knowing the reason for their deaths.

After a while, York comes across the skeletal remains of a large metal construct built into the middle of the floor, perhaps once part of a band saw, though the blade appears to be missing. He moves along the length of a derelict conveyor belt and eventually finds himself separated from the others.

"This place is enormous, Zach!" He has to whisper, due to the possibility of an echo. "A perfect place to hold a secret sacred ritual."

"Agent York?" Emily's voice carries faintly through the moldy shadows towards him. "I haven't found anything over here yet."

"Me neither," calls George, sounding even farther away. "We can keep looking, but I won't be convinced until I see it with my own eyes."

On the spur of the moment, York decides not to answer back. He and Zach are tired of having to wait up, having to explain things, having to put up with Emily and George's constant routine of doubt. He switches off his flashlight and, with only the faded light streaming in through broken windows to guide him, begins to wander further into the darkness. Zach calls his attention to a boarded up door tucked away between two log piles, and York has to turn he flashlight on again to examine it.

Somewhere in the back of his consciousness, he registers George and Emily calling his name. But their voices are drowned out by the static filling his mind as he takes in what his light has revealed, spray-painted in bright red over the boards nails across the door: An upside-down peace sign.

York sets about with a nearby crowbar in wrenching it open. Reddish brown flakes swirl around his head and shoulders, and his tucks his face into his arm to keep from inhaling any dangerous particles. It's lucky that he continues to hold this position as he ventures into the next chamber, for as soon as he steps through it, the door slams behind him, leaving him staring down into a mist-filled room writhing with Shadows. The breath he'd been about to take seconds ago stops in his throat and stays there, and he feels Zach tightening his hand around the crowbar. His gun is tucked away in its holster, but it feels like a million miles away.

The door he'd just come through is barred by a thick wall of red ivy, so there's nowhere to go but down the metal steps and into the midst of the creatures. The Shadows here are dressed for the job, wearing plaid flannel, work boots and hard hats, and all of them are men. For some reason, York finds this to be a relief. It's not easy shooting anything with vaguely human characteristics, but that first one, the dark-haired woman in the floral print dress, still seems like his most disturbing encounter. He plots out a quick course through the fog swirling below him, and just before setting a foot on the first step, dares to take a quick gulp of air.

The effect is immediate, as if he'd loudly told a racist joke at a dinner party; their heads all swivel bonelessly on their shoulders until he's staring into a sea of ravaged, chalk-white faces, gaping eye sockets pointed directly at him. By the time the moans start up again, he's already on the move, holding his breath and keeping his arms and shoulders tucked in so as not to brush up against any that might accidentally stray too close. Still, he can hear what they're saying all too well as he passes by:

"Ki-i-i-lll hi-i-i-immm..."

"Where are yo-o-ou-u-u..."

He pounds up to the exit on the other side of the room and bursts through, just as his lungs are giving out. Zach's warning comes too late; someone has forcibly removed the stairs leading down from the door on this side, leaving a pile of twisted, jagged metal below. York narrowly misses impaling himself on it as he falls five feet into a pool of grayish, foul-smelling water, which goes up to his waist when he manages to flounder to his feet, coughing and spitting.

"Zach..." he gags, wiping his mouth, "I never thought I'd say it, but it's times like this that almost make me wish we could call in the cavalry. "

He pauses, head cocked. Then he says, "No, you're right. It would be pretty embarrassing for Emily to see us like this. Not to mention, George would never let us live it down... Okay, Zach, we're on our own, just like we wanted. Where to next?"

At this juncture, there's only one passageway open for travel. It's narrow and filled with water, but there's no way York is going to be able to go back the way he came, so he presses onwards. Steam pipes run down the hall over his head like the digestive tubing of the mill-monster's innards. Red tendrils dangle from above into the water, feeding on who knows what kinds of disgusting bacteria are proliferating beneath the surface. York shudders, tries not to think about it.

Miraculously, his gun still appears to be working; maybe a side effect of this otherworldly plane is that firearms will function properly where clocks refuse. He holds it in his right hand, but keeps the crowbar in his left, just in case there are more boards that must be pried off. And, lo and behold, there is an opportunity to do so at the end of the hallway, the floor sloping up gradually so that by the time York reaches the door, only his shoes are submerged. He gets to work with the crowbar, putting in more exertion than needed in an attempt to rid himself of the dread starting to weigh him down.

What they finds inside the next room lifts their spirits somewhat. It's a bunker of sorts, where the mill workers must have taken naps or changed out of their uniforms at the end of the day. There are beds, unusually clean and well made, and a row of metal lockers at the far end. A small folding table on which lie a few scattered playing cards sits against the wall, but Zach spots something far more interesting on the wooden desk next to it: A white telephone.

"Is it still operational?" York wonders, and it must be, because as soon as the words are out of his mouth, it starts to ring.
_________________

CHAPTER 13.5: JUKEBOX INTERLUDE

TIME AND LOCATION: ???
WEATHER REPORT: ???
FORTUNE: "Music hath Charms to sooth a savage Breast/ To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak." -William Congreve, The Mourning Bride

Zach, can you do me a favor?  I know it's stupid, but...  I want you to sing for me.  Anything will do.  A pop song, rap, country... Well, maybe not country.  And maybe not rap.  Whatever, it's not like we listen to that kind of stuff anyway, so feel free to pick something.  I won't be upset with your decision, I promise.
...Really?  In this situation?  Yeah, yeah, I know I said I wouldn't complain.  It just seems a little obvious, that's all.  But, regardless, it is a great song.  You're not the most cheerful guy I know, Zach, but you do have great taste in music.
Whenever you're ready, then.
Play it again, Zach.
_________________

CHAPTER 14: LUMBER MILL BLUES, PART II

TIME AND LOCATION: ?
WEATHER REPORT: ?
FORTUNE: "Today, good fortune will elevate you to new heights."

I'm a street walking cheetah with a heart full of napalm
I'm a runaway son of the nuclear A-bomb


The words reverbrate in York's head as he leaps over a wooden crate and crouches down behind it, trying to catch his breath. He's listening for the sound of heavy footsteps, the scrape of an axe head against the ground, the wet and muffled breathing of the dangerous animal pursuing him. It's the man- no, the thing- dressed in red again, York thinks. The demonic figure from the hospital has followed him here somehow. It knows we're getting close, Zach; it doesn't want us knowing what it knows...

I am a world's forgotten boy
The one who searches and destroys


Even though he can "hear" Zach's voice, it's not in a physical sense; it's as if his ears are operating on a separate channel from the one in his head. The music, far from distracting, serves to keep him calm, gives him something to focus on besides his hunger and fatigue and the way his wet clothing sticks unpleasantly to his skin. It reminds him of when he and Zach were trying to get through high school together, York locking himself in a bathroom stall at lunch break until he was pretty sure his tormentors- either of the teacher or classmate variety- had given up the hunt for him. Zach always sang something to keep him occupied as he perched miserably atop the toilet tank, gangly and sullen, unable to understand how he'd gotten into this situation. What had he done to deserve it? Why was he always the chased, never the chaser? By the time he'd graduated, he still hadn't known the answer to those questions, and neither had Zach.

Honey, gotta help me please
Somebody gotta save my soul
Baby, detonate for me


But he's not in high school any more. And he's sick of hiding in locker rooms.

Look out honey 'cause I'm using technology
Ain't got time to make no apology


A jarring rattle through the floor prompts York to peek over the top of the crate, down the twisted corridor that is filling rapidly with plumes of purple fog. He sees yellow sparks in the darkness down there, making their maddeningly deliberate way towards him. The sparks are accompanied by the grating shriek of a metal blade being dragged across the floor. It is the sound of a weapon thirsty for flesh to bite into.

Gripped by the sudden sharp urge to stand up and fire blindly into the thing's glowing yellow eyes, York instead heads further down the corridor, hoping to find more open ground in which to strategize. In these narrow passageways, he will have no chance in a fight if he finds himself cornered.

Soul radiation in the dead of night
Love in the middle of a firefight


York catches himself regretting having left the bunker room, though the decision had not really been his own. When the phone rang on its hook, it had startled him badly. He'd held the receiver to his ear anyway, having no idea what to expect. For a moment he had even entertained the hopeless possibility that the caller might be someone familiar, George or Emily or even Bob Abrahams, even though logic dictated that the chances were unfathomably low. He is not in the world as he knows it, he is in some Other World, where red plants have invaded, time flows unpredictably and corpses rise to life from within clouds of purple smoke as if he is trapped in a Michael Jackson music video.

So it follows that the voice on the other end of the line would speak in malevolent tones that barely register as English, or even human.

"Eye... schee... yeww..."

The line went dead. York remembers carefully putting the receiver back on the hook, surprised that his hands were so steady, and taking advantage of this fact to light a cigarette. There was no point in trying to contact outside help; the phone was an agent of the dark forces surrounding him, and it could only be a waste of energy.

So he had fled the room, just in time as it turned out, for the demon in red had not merely been bluffing during its brief call. York, holding his breath and hiding behind a massive water tank, saw it enter the empty bunker, heard its terrible roar of disappointment when it realized its prey had vanished, and after that he hadn't stuck around to find out the depth of the thing's wrath.

Honey, gotta strike me blind
Somebody gotta save my soul
Baby, penetrate my mind


Now York is getting fed up. It hasn't even been his first full day on the investigation, and if the monarchy's insistence on hampering the flow of his work hasn't been bad enough, this is the third time he's been accosted by horrific ghouls whose intentions are nebulous save for the obvious goal of wanting to kill him. He's had crazy assignments before, assignments that have plunged him so deeply into the darkest waters of the human condition that he'd wondered if he would ever resurface. But this has nothing to do with humanity. This is something else altogether.

And I'm the world's forgotten boy
The one who's searchin', searchin' to destroy


Up ahead, York catches sight of what looks like a bank of tiny blinking lights, possibly a control panel of some sort. His heart leaps in different directions as two realizations hit him simeltaneously. The first is that the lights are part of a massive elevator installation, still operational by the looks of it, and the lift is stopped on this floor. The shaft is surrounded by a wire gate, currently wide open, calling him towards safety and escape.

The second realization is that the sound of the axe head scraping along the ground has stopped. Without even turning around, due to some subconscious instinct or more likely a jittery beat from Zach, York knows it's because the axe is currently raised above its owner's head, ready to be flung like a tomahawk across the narrowing distance separating its blade from York's brain.

York lets his legs collapse under him, an easy task given the circumstances, and he hears a piercing whistle as something whirs over his left shoulder, nicking a few threads out of his suit. He rolls upright and sees the axe bury itself in a large metal pipe protruding from the ceiling and leading through a hole in the floor; great gouts of steam begin issuing from it, mingling uneasily with the cold purple fog already present in the room. York whirls around, gun raised, looking for the two glowing orbs that mark the demon's eyes. Even with the smokescreen blanketing his vision, they aren't hard to spot. They're less than five feet away from him, and getting closer.

And honey, I'm the world's forgotten boy
The one who's searchin', only to destroy


In all his years as an agent, York's trigger finger has never moved so quickly, nor has his aim been so steadily held to its target. Survival is the mother of precision. He puts almost the whole clip into Big Red's face, or where he guesses the face ought to be under that hood, backing up the whole while towards the elevator gate.

But the thing doesn't drop, it keeps on coming, and this is the first time York has been able to see it so clearly. It's over six feet tall, broad shouldered and long of limb. It's hard to make out any more distinct details, though, for most of it is clad in an old, ragged raincoat the color of clotted blood drying on a hardwood floor. Its huge hands are sheathed in thick black gloves, mercifully empty of any other weapons, though they are deadly enough without an axe to swing. And even at this proximity, York can see nothing beyond the shadows covering its hooded face, nothing except those alien eyes glaring with a cold, dead, hungering light into his own. He fires into them again, almost at point blank range, and they don't even flicker.

York feels a deep, stuttering vibration in his chest and ears, and it takes him a precious moment to identify what it is: The monster is laughing at him. And when glances involuntarily towards the purple sparks suddenly bursting in his peripheral vision, only to see the axe dislodge itself from the pipe and bound back to its master's hand like an obedient puppy, he lowers his gun and makes a break for the elevator.

So much for trying to stand up to bullies, York thinks as he runs. People like that always come out on top.

Look out honey 'cause I'm using technology
Ain't got time to make no apology


York leaps into the caged area and onto the lift platform. There's nowhere to go but up, so he pounds on the button and prays he will not hear the screech of a malfunctioning motor, or worse, nothing at all. The lift jerks under his feet and begins to grind its way upwards, not without an agonizing reluctance to move any faster. And the doors are still open. The electrical system may have malfunctioned, York thinks, just as he sees the demon in the red raincoat stepping unhurriedly into the cage with him, axe held loosely in both hands across its chest as the lift struggles to rise beneath their feet.

York hears that terrible laughter again, and he can't help but join in, the joke so sick that it's painful.

Soul radiation in the dead of night
Love in the middle of a firefight

Hearing Zach's voice, still singing as if nothing is wrong, brings York back to himself. The lift is old, but it's industrial, and wide enough to provide some room for manueverability. York tries to imagine that it's as big as a basketball court, basketball being the only high school sport he might have had a chance of making if he'd been more motivated to pursue it. Skinny sixteen-year old York Morgan always preferred track and field to team activities, though. He and Zach would carry on entire conversations as he ran, the rest of the world blurring away beyond the horizons of their own private universe. It was bliss, until its inevitable rupturing by the sharp intrusion of reality.

KRANG!

York dives and rolls to avoid the axe plunging again towards him, the blade parting atoms on its way down. It strikes the metal floor and leaves a brutal gash five inches deep, just one of a series of similar wounds scattered at random around their feet. To a non-participating observer, it almost looks like a sort of violent dance routine, the gashes forming a pattern of movement as the two figures circle each other, one warily, the other mockingly. The one in red makes a gesture with one hand as if to bid York come closer, so it might whisper a private revelation in his ear. York is pretty sure the revelation will be the swift removal of his head, so he remains where he is, weaving cautiously with his gun pointed down and to his right.

Honey, gotta strike me blind
Somebody gotta save my soul
Baby, penetrate my mind


He wonders many many floors they've passed so far. It doesn't even feel like they're moving. But they are; he can see the walls of the shaft descending past the platform, moving at a glacial speed. If he could spare the energy to be amazed at how long he's been able to hold his ground, he would be; but if he pays any attention to his empty stomach, his lack of sleep, and the steadily dwindling number of bullets left in his gun, he might take a dive and never get back up. It's like trying not to think of pink elephants when someone's told you not to think about pink elephants, and the more he tries to concentrate on the fight, the worse his reflexes seem to get. Even keeping a firm grip on his gun is starting to seem like a challenge.

The monster takes another swing at him, and this time York doesn't so much dodge it as stumble sideways, landing hard on his side and knocking the breath out of himself. His thoughts crawl dizzily across the floor of his mind, blurring in and out of focus even as he feels the massive gloved fingers of the killer closing around his throat and lifting him into the air.

What's he playing at? York wonders, almost in a dream-like trance, feeling the deadweight of his own body dangling limply in the creature's grasp as if he is no longer inhabiting it. There's no way to effectively use a long-handled axe like that if he's holding me at so close a range... He should have killed me with one blow to the skull while I was on the ground. Then it'd all be over, we could be drinking pals, hang out at a bar somewhere, put the past behind us...

The fingers around his throat begin to squeeze. Purple sparks swarm across York's vision like fireflies during mating season, each burst of light bringing a fresh wave of agony. He kicks out and strikes nothingness. It's as if he's been ejected into outer space, suspended in a dark void with nothing to hold onto... The only thing still connecting him with the physical world is the collar of pain wrapped around his neck, growing smaller with each passing second, the purple fireflies breeding like crazy now, busting into orgiastic supernovas before his eyes as they roll back in their sockets, mouth begging wordlessly for air, that unholy laughter shaking apart the echo chamber of his ribcage from within, darkness closing-

And I'm the world's forgotten boy
The one who's searchin', searchin' to destroy


On the brink of consciousness, York feels something like a warm, white light sliding down the length of his right arm, down to his hand, into his fingers still wrapped around the grip of his pistol. His arm no longer belongs to him; it's being controlled by some other force, his nerve endings now part of it, veins pumping neon instead of blood...

Zach, still sending the words of the song into the emptiness of space, lifts the gun, takes a moment to aim, pulls the trigger.

And honey, I'm the world's forgotten boy
The one who's searchin', searchin' to destroy


The sound of the gun going off is a sonic explosion that wipes out the purple fireflies instantly, leaving York's vision clear. The first thing he sees is a crazy, skewed glimpse of the top of the shaft as the elevator shudders to a stop, hitching wildly on its rails and throwing the killer off balance. York tumbles to the ground, oxygen rushing back to his lungs.

Zach's bullet has lodged itself in one of the control panels on the far side of the lift, disrupting some governing mechanism used in the brake system. The platform jerks to a stop, the doors open, and York barely has to roll sideways until he's lying on solid concrete, free of the elevator. He raises his head blearily, just in time to see the thing in the red raincoat turning towards him, still in the cage, a dark soundless rage gathering around it like a stormcloud. Then it stops, and York swears he sees those lantern-like eyes widen in surprise as the elevator gates slide shut between it and York. He sees the scarlet raincoat moving behind the metal grate as it begins to demolish the barrier with its axe; then, almost anticlimactically, it disappears from view as the lift drops back into the darkness from which it came. A primal wail floats up the now unoccupied shaft, then fades under the neutral rumble of noble, unseen machinery. It's as if even the elevator knows that Hell is the only proper place for a demon.

Forgotten boy, forgotten boy
Forgotten boy, said hey forgotten boy


The last chords of "Search and Destroy" fade as York lies on his back, eyes closed and chest heaving. The purple fog creeps hesitantly around his motionless body, as if aware of his temporary victory over its axe-wielding master. York stirs, and the fog appears to come to a conclusion, sinking back into the pores of reality and taking all the other trappings of nightmare it had borne to the mill with it. When York finally opens his eyes, he sees nothing more sinister than the usual dust and ruin of neglect... With the demon vanquished for now, the mill has been restored to its former dilapidated nature. Here on the top floor, the sun is shining through weathered holes worn through the metal siding of the roof. Rainwater drips steadily from the crumbling edges of the holes. Outside, a flock of tiny birds heckle each other as their shadows dart among the piles of debris strewn across the damp floor.

York gets to his feet, the taste of copper still lingering in his mouth, and peers through weak shafts of light at the dark shapes beyond. A slight breeze moves past him, and he hears a rustle from the far end of the room... His muscles tense with the last reserves of adrenaline left in his body. A crimson veil drifts into view, languid, like the beckoning arm of a beautiful woman lying just out of reach. York follows it with his eyes, a smile spreading across his aching face.

"Unfinished business, Zach," he croaks, wincing as the bruises on his neck throb. "King George ought to be satisfied with this little piece of evidence. Let's go tell the others what we've found..."
____________________

To be continued in Part 4 of Project REDWOOD.
PART 3 contains the following chapters:
10: Eyewitness Accounts
11: The Tree of Anna
12: Trailer Park Boys
13: Lumber Mill Blues, Part I
13.5: Jukebox Interlude
14: Lumber Mill Blues, Part II

This will be an unofficial novelization of the game in its entirety, so needless to say that only people who have actually played the game should read it. Join York and Zach and the search for Anna's killer begins anew, this time with WORDS an' stuff...

For more Deadly Premonition goodies, check out my fansite Planet Redwood:
[link]
© 2010 - 2024 animagess
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HappyAggro's avatar
Yet again, you remain very good at characterization. I'm half inclined to take the links of the chapters so far and ask @Swery65 to RT them. Dude is not fluent in English, but I think he'd appreciate your gesture greatly.