All Chapters of Blackwater Val: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

PROLOGUESomewhere in Germany1945THE MANIAC, MARENBACH thinks within the unyielding darkness, partly in contempt, partly in fear.Mostly in fear.He squints in the musty gloom of his secluded shop at the small man before him, at the slicked-down hair and the dead, terribly vacant eyes. A bit of mustache set above a mouth of bad teeth, the nervous tic in one corner of that mouth. At the large German shepherd heeled by the man’s side.At the armed squadron of SS guards gathered in tight behind him.Marenbach blinks and proceeds Deutsch zu sprechen: “When would you wish it done, my leader?”“As soon as possible,” the little man says with vehemence. He also speaks in German, but the Austrian dialect is unmistakable. “The glory is coming to a close. It is almost over, I’m afraid.” The eyes seem to sadden.“May I see it?” Marenbach asks, holding out his hand. He prays that he doesn’t tremble; the dog is watching his every move.“By all means.” The man reaches inside his long leat

CHAPTER TWO1RICHARD DECIDED THEY should probably check into a motel before heading to the house, just in case. No telling what might happen later in the remains of this day, so, ‘better safe than sorry’ became his instant mantra. He drove back out to the rural fringes of town and got them a double room, at a place called the Nightlight Inn, not far from Illinois 72 and the old Penfield Monument Works—where most of the region’s grave markers were still made. Richard carried their luggage in, and sat two leather bags on the beds, opting to leave the third suitcase containing Michelle’s ashes and their emergency cell phone outside, in the vehicle. Then, after pondering a moment, he turned a light on and the television on low, and locked the unit up behind them before pulling away from the cheerless L-shaped motel. He couldn’t explain why, but Richard felt the need to keep his dead wife’s remains nearby for right now. It was just an unseen urge to stay close to her, he guessed, to keep

CHAPTER FOUR1“HELLO, RICH,” said Franklin’s father-in-law from behind the screen.“Hi, George.” Richard shifted on the porch, wishing dearly to God that he was someplace else, anyplace—even a few houses over, where he’d heard the White Sox game on the radio, would be better than this. Break out another cold brew, buddy! he felt like yelling. I’ll be right there! Who’s up? What’s the score?Then Deadmond pushed open the screen door and stepped out, extending one liver-spotted hand to him. Richard knew he had to be in his sixties, but the man looked a great deal older than that now. His face seemed haggard and worn, the eyes red and sunken behind his bifocals. He looked almost wizened beyond recognition, as if he’d aged fifteen years since the last time Richard had seen him, a month ago at Michelle’s funeral.He’s going to die pretty soon, Richard thought morbidly. On the heels of that, immediately: Jesus! What a thing to think!“How are you?” Richard said, letting go of Katie to

CHAPTER FIVE1NOT WANTING TO leave his daughter alone for too long, Richard headed down the hall. How in hell had he forgotten the history and facts about his own hometown like that? Jesus, he used to know them . . . was supposed to know them. And Michelle’s high school term paper—how had that slipped his ‘writerly mind’? It was almost as if a pall covered him, shrouding over his memories once he had left this place, and now that he was back the shroud was falling away . . . the pall lifting.He supposed it was true then, Thomas Wolfe’s immortal words, published posthumously of course: You really couldn’t go home again, not without displacement like this, without that feeling of having lost something, something which can never be fully retrieved.In actuality it was not all that surprising. He supposed he’d always wished to forget this place, and now he had. Literally. Selective bits, at least.Richard brought in Katie’s pastel crayons and her special activity book, the one she a

CHAPTER SEVEN1WHILE RICHARD STIRRED in his sleep, caught up within the folds of some nightmare, others were awake this night. People bustled about Aubel Farms, where the working barns were well lit, a soft glow coming from the cast-iron wall sconces inside. Two of the Aubel family’s prize cows had decided to give birth at this late hour, and everyone involved was concerned due to the recent losses among the livestock.The midnight laborers went about their tasks with frowns of worry knitting their brows, hoping for the best. One of these farmhands, though, a haggard man in his fifties known as Ditch Richards, stood outside in the field now looking up at the sky. He went out to smoke a cigarette in private, away from the barns and the others. He began to wonder if it’d be like the last time; he prayed that it wasn’t. Dreaded it actually, dreaded having to burn any more dead-born calves. He stayed outside in the cool evening air and smoked for as long as he could, his eyes rimmed in