Mookie has published chapter 1 of a story and “tagged” me and Renaissance Guy to write a second chapter. Apparently the story is to go in different directions as different people contribute and “tag” others. I usually ignore tags and refuse to tag others because, well, that’s just me. However, in this case I’ll participate.
Chapter one of the “story” can be found here: http://mookieismike.blogspot.com/2009/11/curiosity-creative-writing-exercise.html. Renaissance Guy’s chapter 2 can be found here: http://renaissanceguy.wordpress.com/2009/12/01/creative-writing-exercise/. As I understand it, my chapter two should be different, and the story will go off in different directions (I haven’t read RG’s chapter two yet so as not to bias my own).
Chapter 2 – by Scott Erb
Detective Neil Coleman could not believe what he had gotten himself into. It started out as an investigation into allegations that a cult was involved in nefarious activities on the outskirts of town. Coleman had dealt with such issues before. Once a Satanist cult had killed a cow outside of his hometown of Trimont, Minnesota. Coleman was then a small town cop, barely 23 years old. He arrested the culprits and noticed that they themselves were horrified by what they had done. They were in their teens, and had nudged each other on to follow practices described in a cheap book on “Satanist rituals” in order to cast a spell on their school. They ultimately had to repay the farmer for the cow and spend time in juvenile detention. As far as he knew, they gave up Satanism forever.
Now Coleman was in his mid-thirties and working in Chanhassen, Minnesota, a wealthy suburb of Minneapolis. The alleged cult supposedly met in a clearing at the edge of town, near a ravine and a tunnel that ran along a river. Coleman went there originally to investigate allegations that graffiti and blood stains indicated nefarious animal sacrifices. But what he found was far different. He had walked through a tunnel, and noticed that the ‘blood and bones’ scattered there looked less like traces of a sacrifice than red paint and leftovers from a dinner. Then suddenly he found himself in the middle of a drug deal.
His instincts as a detective first led him to consider trying to make an arrest. But with seven gangsters totting weapons in a dark and secluded edge of a tunnel, he realized that would be an unwise move. Instead, he hoped they wouldn’t search him and find his badge, and put his head down and tried to walk past.
“Hey, idiot,” one of the underlings called out. “Stop right there, what the hell do you think you’re doing.”
Coleman stopped. “Hey, I don’t want any trouble, I’m just…I’m just looking for something to eat.”
One of the apparent leaders walked over to him. “Down on your luck?”
“My wife left me,” Colemand lied, “and right now I don’t even have a home. I’ll get it together. If you could spare even a little money…”
He was shoved by one of the ‘enforcers,’ who looked like he was going to pound Coleman with the butt of a gun. “Don’t fucking beg…”
The boss held up his hand to stop the enforcer, “Joey, hold back. This guy is just going through some hard times, we’ve all been there. He’s young, strong, maybe he can help us.” Joey backed up still giving Coleman a snide stare. “My name is Gordon, but most people just call me ‘boss’ — you know, like Springsteen.” Coleman managed a slight smile. “Who are you?”
“Name’s Neil…Neil Cook. I work in construction, but with the housing market on the skids, there’s not much work going on.”
“Here,” said the boss, flipping a C-note to Coleman, “this should get you something.” Coleman’s eyes opened wide — he expected a beating, not $100. “If you want more, I have some work for you. But you have to be willing to do whatever I tell you to do, with no questions asked. Can you handle that?”
“Sure,” said Coleman.
That was a week ago. Now, with back up arranged, he was to be in on a major drug deal. This was not the kind of arrest he was used to, as word was that a shipment of cocaine was coming in from Chicago, and would be distributed to some top dealers to spread to various parts of the Twin Cities. The level of planning and security astounded Coleman, who realized that if not for his luck on stumbling on a minor transfer, would have never been detected. After he got back to headquarters and made his report, they started gathering information and realized that this was a drug cartel that the Minneapolis and St. Paul police had been pursuing for months. Coleman’s discovery provided the link that could break the case open. And Coleman would be there as a ‘mob enforcer’ wearing a wire to set up a major arrest. This was the kind of thing that could mean a promotion — or death. Coleman was nervous.
The weak spot in the whole arrangement had been the tunnel entrance Coleman had investigated a week earlier. It was small and hidden. Today guards were placed around the scene, but someone could still emerge through the tunnel. Coleman, still distrusted by the boss’s other enforcers, was unarmed, and supposed to aid in carrying the merchandise to various vehicles that pulled up in an ally. The path between the ally and the clearing was about 50 meters. It was designed to assure that those receiving the merchandise didn’t know who was providing it, other than a dupe like Coleman hired simply to carry the goods. The police and FBI had to hang way back, and Coleman knew that any problem in timing could yield disaster.
Suddenly a strange mist started rising from the ground. “What the hell is that,” yelled the boss.
Coleman heard a chant. There was no way anyone could have infiltrated the area, yet it appeared that people were suddenly near the tunnel exit at the start of the clearing, though through the mist they appeared almost ghost like. A deer darted out of the mist and ran into the tunnel. The boss told his men to clear the area, and they drew their guns and ran towards the tunnel’s exit. Then, when matters seemed to be spinning out of control, two boys entered the clearing from the tunnel, staring in horror at what was happening in the mist. If there was shooting, the boys would be in the middle of it. Coleman had to think fast.