Sitting high on a bluff, the inn looked as disheveled as Darren Palmer felt.  He had been traveling for more than ten hours, and he hadn't slept in nearly a day and a half. 

After Gracie released him, he went straight to the airport and caught the first flight out.  Darren had been hoping to land in Newark and head home, but like all things recently, it didn't go as planned.  Jorgenson wanted to see him immediately.  Between the time his commercial flight touched down and the private twin-prop took off for Maine, he only had time to scarf down a slice of lukewarm pizza.  In Portland, he rented a car and drove an hour and twenty minutes to this ramshackle, monstrosity in the middle of nowhere.  Seated on the edge of a rocky hill, it looked more like a shipwreck than a place of lodging.

The Benbow Inn had a distinctive nautical air.  Lobster traps and ship's wheels hung about the sagging rafters.  There was nothing artful or deliberate about it.  It looked like it had been decorated by a blind mariner in some forgotten era and then was boarded up and left to ferment into musty decrepitude.

Despite the one-star appearance, the place was bustling with activity.  A couple of dozen people milled about the lobby and streamed in and out from a door that seemed to never get the chance to fully close.  They were centered on an area that appeared to have once been used for serving meals.  Small square tables were pushed together creating three long ones and the discarded chairs were stacked high against the wall. 

Finding no one at the front desk, Darren infiltrated the herd, following two men who stank of dirt and sweat.  They crossed the lobby carrying a heavy object wrapped in a sheet of black plastic.  When they reached the table they unpacked it with great care.  Their precious cargo was a piece of rotting timber.

The tables were covered with such litter.  Chips of wood, stones, and shards of clay cluttered the surfaces.  At first, it seemed to be nothing but garbage, but as he examined it, Darren saw designs in some of the rocks and clay.  There were carved figures, sometimes just a line or two, but they were clearly man-made.  On a white cloth in what appeared to be a place of honor, there was a delicate tablet.  The stone was rough and crumbling around its uneven edges.  Only four inches wide, it had a carving depicting two creatures holding or attacking a man holding two knives.  The things on either side of him may have been bears or maybe wolves.  It was hard to tell.

It figured, that son-of-a-bitch Jorgenson was here to add to his collection.  Why should Darren have thought for a minute that he might be concerned with the business of running a company?

"Can I see you're ID."  A soft voice came from behind him.  Darren almost jumped when he saw the source was a mountain of a man with a shaved head and a dark suit. 

"ID?"  The man was clearly security.  He might be SBI but Darren thought it more likely he was from a private firm.  "Do you mean like my driver's license?"

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave."  A hand like tungsten steel wrapped around his upper arm and began to draw him away.

"Jorgenson sent for me."

The man didn't respond, he just continued to drag him in the direction of the door.

"I'm Darren Palmer.  I was sent for." 

Sent for?  Why did he keep saying that?  Who said that?  And when had his voice gotten so whiney?

"Palmer, huh?"  The guard released him with a curt apology and directed him to the cliffs where Jorgenson was waiting.

The fierce wind rushing across the open field tossed Darren's hair and billowed through his jacket.  He wondered if it might disguise the worst of his haggard appearance, but cursed himself for the thought.  What the hell did it matter what he looked like anymore?  Why should he give a shit how Jorgenson would judge him?  The sooner Gracie killed him, the better.  The sooner they were all dead, the sooner Darren would be free and his girls would be safe.

Was Grierson already dead?  Good riddance to that smug asshole.  Hopefully, buzzards were picking at his bones at that very moment. 

But what if Gracie failed?

What if Grierson killed her instead?  Or captured her?  Did SBI already know of his betrayal?  These high cliffs, deserted in the winter weather, would be the perfect place to stage an accident.  Was that why he was sent for?

Darren relaxed a little when he saw the tall, blond man looking out over the sea.  Jorgenson would never be here by himself if there was dirty work to be done.  And he certainly wouldn't be all alone, if he was planning on doing Darren any harm.  It was a good sign.

When Darren was within five feet of his boss, he noticed that Jorgenson had grown out his beard since the last time they met.  A fine golden moss coated his cheek.  Darren stood there for a moment, working up his courage before calling out, "Sir, I came as fast as I could."

"Do you like my new acquisition, Mr. Palmer?"  Jorgenson didn't turn around and the wind robbed his voice of its volume but not its force.

"What acquisition?"

When he faced Palmer, he was smiling.  It was the same thin grin from the oil painting hanging in the SBI lobby.  It was the smile of a monarch looking over his dominion.  Despite the gales coming in from the Atlantic, there wasn't a hair on his head or in his beard that was out of place.  Jorgenson spread his arms wide.  "This.  The hotel and the surrounding lands."

"Yes, very nice."

"Hmm."  The smile vanished and it looked like he was chewing on a sour candy.  "Oh, I would not use that word.  The hotel should have been torn down twenty years ago and there is nothing but bleakness on this land."

"Then why did you buy it?"

"A very interesting carving was found here.  Well, over there to be exact."  He pointed off beyond the scrubby dead grass.  Plastic sheets rippled in the wind and men lost their individuality and size off in the distance.

"I saw it.  The tablet.  What is it?"

"It depicts a scene from the Ragnarok."  Jorgenson took a couple of steps, halving the distance between them.  "I don't suppose you are familiar with it?  Bah, they teach people the most inane things in this country and so little of what matters.  The Ragnarok are the prophesies made by Völuspá the seer.  It tells of the end of the gods.  Think of it as the Norse apocalypse."

Distraction flitted on his face—just a small wavering of interest between one word and the next.  "According to historians, the Vikings never made it this far south, but a settlement may have been here nearly a thousand years ago.  This could be the archeological find of the decade."

"Congratulations, sir."  Was this why he was brought here?  So this crackpot could brag about relics?  How the hell did someone so obsessed with a hobby get to run a multinational company?  If he concentrated on the job SBI actually paid him to do, Darren wouldn't be in this awful mess.  All those men would still be alive.  Maybe he should shove him off the stupid cliff himself.  It might score him points with Gracie.  If nothing else, it would probably help the SBI's stock price.

No.  It would be better that Gracie did it.  Darren really didn't want to only be able to see his family on visitor's day at the prison.

He swallowed his anger and pushed it down until he felt like he could give a look of earnest capitulation.  "I want you to know I deeply regret how things went down in Phoenix.  I take full responsibility." 

Even though, you're the fucker who is responsible for it all.

"Commendable.  But these things happen.  A successful man expects setbacks and prepares for them.  Patience, my dear Mr. Palmer—patience and perseverance are the most important qualities for any man.  You would be well to remember that." 

"I see."

"Already other plans are in motion to destroy that abomination."

Great.  This was never going to end.  Darren's life had turned into one huge, miserable disaster, all because Jorgenson didn't like wolf-girls.  What difference was there if they killed it or if they let the government experiment on it for the rest of its life?  It was just some freak.  Wasn't it?

"Sir, how can something like that exist?"

"It shouldn't."  His composer slipped and the words came out in an angry bark.  "She shouldn't exist at all.  Her bloodline should have ended a long time ago.  Many thought it had been stomped out, but it turns out that it was only disrupted.  By accident or design—by happenchance or fate—one generation after another have contrived to revive it."

"I don't understand."

"Breeding.  People who should never have been allowed to procreate came together and put the genes back together.  And now, something that simply should not be is back.  For eleven-hundred years, there have been dedicated individuals tasked with stopping this atrocity from walking the Earth, but there have also been those trying to protect and foster it.  They may have won this battle but I have no intention of losing the war."

"Why would people want werewolves to exist?"

Jorgenson frowned clearly not sure what to reveal and what to keep hidden.  The bastard liked his secrets.  "That is a very long story, Mr. Palmer.  Perhaps one day I shall have time to tell you all of it.  But this long and ancient story begins with that carving in there."  He nodded toward the Benbow.  "The legend says that the beings you call werewolves will destroy this world and everything in it.  Like most things in mythology, the Ragnarok is all metaphors and poetics.  But there is truth beneath the surface."

"Are you saying that the girl is going to cause the apocalypse?"

"Yes and no.  Like I said, not everything in myth is that straightforward."  Jorgensen turned and addressed his next words to the sea.  He was pontificating now, letting his voice boom out over the water.  "Whether she will directly bring about doomsday or not, there will be those that pin their hopes and dreams on her being able to do so."

"Who in their right mind would want the world to end?"

"Many people long for that final day.  Why do you think there has been so much enthusiasm over this Mayan business?  Before that, the new Millennium was to take care of it all.  Before that, there were a hundred other reasons on a hundred other dates, because deep in the core of many hearts, they want it to be over.  Do you know why that is?"

Darren shook his head, only to realize that Jorgenson couldn't see him.  "No, why?"

"Whether they admit it to themselves or not, they think it will give their lives meaning.  They believe that there will be importance to their existence if they are the ones at the end—if they get to witness it.  This is why so many want it to happen in their lifetime."

"And do you?"  That's all Darren needed: for this psycho to be using all his wealth and power to bring about some twisted Viking prophecy.  Maybe giving him a shove wasn't such a bad idea.

"No.  Not I.  Why should I wish it to end?  This world is made for me."  His hands rose and up and formed into a fist as he punctuated each word with a dictator-like gesticulation.  "Everything this world offers is mine for the taking.  Only the weak want it destroyed because it is not just for meaning but also sour grapes.  Do you know about sour grapes, Mr. Palmer?"

"I have heard the expression, of course." 

Something to do with bitterness, he thought.

"Aesop.  A Greek."  Jorgenson said it as though apologizing for citing such a lesser being.  "He wrote of a fox who was so disappointed that he could not have the grapes that he swore he never wanted them in the first place.  Without ever having tasted them, he proclaimed them sour.  This is how most people are about the world: sour grapes.  But for men like you and me."  Darren got the impression that he was being included only out of theatrics or perhaps to make him feel closer to the megalomaniac and his vision, but he had no doubt, Jorgenson, really just meant himself.  "We do not see things that way.  For us, the world—its struggles, its conflicts, its battles and wars—they are but wild strawberries.  Sweet on the tongue."

He looked over his shoulder and smiled brightly at Darren, as though he had just bitten into one of the sweet berries.  In the silver light of the sun, Darren couldn't decide if Jorgenson looked like an angel or the Devil himself.

***

Continue on to Book Two: http://www.wattpad.com/story/45860369-the-things-we-bury-book-two

***

Author's Endnote

Thanks to everyone who made it all the way to the end.  I want to thank the silent readers as wells as those that voted.  And you wonderful people who commented, you are angels—thank you most of all!  It has been your comments that have kept me going and kept me feeling like I wasn't just wasting my time with this.

It was exactly one year ago today that I began posting this story on Wattpad.  I started working on it for approximately two months before that.  That is the longest I have ever spent writing a book (and actually finishing it).  Weighing in at just over one-hundred-and-forty-thousand words, this is also the longest book I have ever written.  And there is still a lot more to write.

Despite some hesitation to spend another year or three finishing this tale, there will absolutely be a Book Two.  I am currently planning it and working out the major plot elements.  I don't tend to do much planning when I write, but I'm realizing with continuing this story I need to know exactly what's in store for each character—there is too much invested in them to leave it entirely to chance.  Expect to see the next book hit Wattpad near the end of the summer.

At the same time, I will be going back and doing major edits on this one.  I am proud of much of the writing I have done here.  There are passages that are some of the best things I have ever written.  But overall, I don't feel like it stands on its own as a proper novel.  Once I have a clean manuscript I will probably investigate publication, but I'll see about that when the time comes.

No matter how much I change in editing, I will try to keep the outcome of every plot thread intact so Book Two is not affected.  If you're wondering what to expect when the story continues, I would love to give you some wonderful teaser, but that seems beyond my abilities.  All I can say is Amy will become a much more central figure.  Here she was marginalized and kept in a cage.  Soon the world will get bigger and she will have a lot more to do than sit in her prison and read books and listen to music.

Until then, I would love to hear your thoughts on this book and what you would like to see in the next one.  Thank you again.

David J. Thirteen – June 13, 2015