False Prey: A Wildfire Novella (Wildfire Saga) (10 page)

“You’re wasting your time.
 
Like I told the judge, I didn’t do anything other than break down in this backwater, shithole of a town!”
 

The hands gripping his arm constricted without mercy.
 
Thomas cried out in pain and started to fall, but Perkins held him upright.
 
Fire shot up his arms.
 
He knew one arm was already broken and with the gorilla squeezing his right arm like that, Thomas could see his vision starting to fade with the pain.
 
It was like he was looking down a shrinking tunnel.

“Well now,” said Mosby, taking a step closer.
 
“We’ll just see about that.”
 
He motioned with his hand over his shoulder.
 
Someone came forward with rope.
 

Thomas felt like he was watching everything happen to someone else.
 
He looked on in horror as the locals moved him to one of the rickety chairs and lashed his arms tight to the armrests.
 
When they stepped back to admire their handiwork, he came back to himself and wasn’t sure what hurt more, the pain from his arm where Perkins had squeezed the broken bone, or the ropes bound to the chair so tight he was already losing feeling in his hands.

“Please,” he moaned.
 
“The ropes…they’re too tight…my hands…”

“Oh, sorry about that…” said Mosby sweetly.
 
“Let me see here,” he added and took a section of rope from his big accomplice.
 
Mosby looped the rope around Thomas’ ankles in a swift movement that Thomas assumed must have been learned hunting deer—or elk or whatever the hell these hicks hunted.
 
He passed it up under and behind the chair and around Thomas’ neck.
 
His eyes went wide.
 
If he tried to stretch his cramped legs, he would choke himself.

Crazy bastards—I gotta get out of here!
 
Where the hell are you, Danny!?

His breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to find a comfortable position.
 
The effort produced a sheen of sweat on his skin and laughter from the locals.
 
The two cops stood beside the bed and watched impassively.

“Please…”
Thomas wheezed.

Mosby turned the other chair around and straddled it. “Now,” he said, smiling again. “You’re gonna tell me all about your little spy game here in town.
 
Who’s your contact?
 
Where’d you keep the flu?
 
Mmm?
 
Where’d you hide your weapons…money and passports—you know, all that spy shit?”

“Jesus, Mosby,” said Officer Perkins as he rolled his eyes.
 
“Whatcha think this is, a movie?”

Mosby’s dark eyes shifted between Thomas and Perkins.
 
“Well…you know…”

Officer Perkins folded his ape-like arms across his broad chest.
 
“Just get this over with.
 
Judge said to make it quick.”

Thomas froze.
 
A trickle of sweat rolled between his eyes and down his cheek.
 
The judge—the old man that had ordered them to let him go—he was in on this?
 

Oh my God…

His heart started beating faster, he began straining at the ropes that bound his arms and legs, ignoring the pain and trying to concentrate on working something—anything—loose enough to let him breathe.
 
Fighting back was out of the question—he just wanted to survive.

“Now just calm down, Ping-Pong.
 
You’re liable to hurt yourself before you tell us anything,” warned Mosby.
 
He opened up a pocket knife.
 
“I hear you Chinks like to stick bamboo under people’s fingernails when you want to torture ‘em…”

Thomas’ eyes locked on the gleaming little blade as it moved closer and closer to his clenched right hand.
 
He tried to speak but the rope was tight around his neck—he could barely breathe, let alone talk.
 
All he could do was watch in near panic as Mosby inched closer with that knife.
 
He tried hard to pry Thomas’ fingers out of their protective fist but Thomas wasn’t budging.
 
Frustration washed over Mosby’s face.

“All-righty, have it your way.
 
We’ll just cut your little Korean dick off, how’s that?”
 
He turned the knife around and grabbed Thomas’ crotch.
 
Thomas tensed, moving his legs involuntarily at the feeling of pressure on his groin, which tightened the rope like a noose around his neck.
 
His vision began to blur at the edges again.

Can’t pass out…God, they’ll kill me…stay awake!

He relaxed his legs and slowly straightened out his shaking right hand.
 
The pressure eased from his groin and the rope loosened enough for him to suck down a few ragged breaths.
 
The spots went away.

“Now, tell me what I want to know.
 
Still not talking, huh?
 
Well, here’s a little taste to show you we’re serious.”

Thomas watched in disbelief as Mosby nonchalantly grabbed his pinky finger and inserted the knife just under the fingernail, slicing neatly through the delicate nail bed..
 
White hot fire erupted from his finger and Thomas screamed in pain.
 
The most intense, world-shattering pain that he had ever experienced.
 
His legs kicked out and his scream died in his throat as the rope tightened.
 
The world around him faded away.
 
Only the fire searing it’s way through his screaming nerves remained.

C
HAPTER
8

Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Chief Murray,” said Danny, opening his notebook to a fresh page.

“Make it quick, Mr. Roberts.
 
I got a lot on my plate at the moment,” grumbled Chief of Police August T. Murray.

Danny nodded, “Of course, sir.
 
And please, call me Danny.”
 
He tried not to look at the Chief’s face—the eyes were just a little too close together, his cheeks just a little too fat.
 
The man looked like a pig stuffed in a blue police uniform covered with service bars and pins.
 
It was going to be fun to skewer the arrogant jerk to the wall.
 
Danny tried to rein in his excitement.
 
This was the part of investigative journalism that he had always found most thrilling.

“Now, if I may, I’d like to ask you how the town is faring as far as the epidemic is concerned.
 
It seems to me, as an outside observer, that you’ve done exceptionally well keeping the mystery virus that’s affecting so much of the nation at bay.
 
How’d you do it?”

The question was designed to throw the chief off, to put him at ease and make it seem like Danny was going to lob him softballs.
 
An old trick Danny used to soften up a target before the really hard hitting questions busted the story loose.
 
It had the desired effect: Chief Murray blinked, licked his lips and leaned back in his chair with a smug look on his face.
 

“Well,” he sighed.
 
“It’s mighty nice of you to point that out, Danny, mighty nice, indeed.”
 
He intertwined his fingers and rested them between two buttons training to keep his shirt covering his substantial belly and sighed.
 
“It hasn’t been easy, that’s for sure.
 
I instituted some pretty harsh measures when word came down the pipe from Frankfort about the CDC declaring a national health emergency.
 
You know, like the one that did so much good ten years ago?”
 
The chief chuckled at his own wit.

Danny scribbled in his notebook as fast as he could while the Chief watched him.
 
He found that usually when a person paused during an interview, they were trying to be polite and let him write things down.
 
It somewhat irritated him that they thought their words were that important, but Danny had found over his long career that the more he flattered a person, the more comfortable they became.
 
They began thinking of him as someone who was on their side and forgot he was a reporter.
 
That always made it easier for him to pry their dirty little secrets out into the daylight.

Danny nodded and murmured “Mmmm
hmmm
…” not taking his eyes off his notebook.
 
He stopped drawing and admired his little sketch of a pig with a police badge and gun.
 
Looking up, he asked, “So you were pretty quick on the draw then?”

“Oh my yes,” said Chief Murray, looking at the ceiling.
 
“I guess it was less than 24 hours after we heard about this mystery flu in California, then the news came out that it was in New York and Chicago, too.”
 
He shook his head.
 
“Shame, really.
 
We knew around here it was terrorists right from the start, yes sir.
 
Said so myself to Greg Moore.
 
The news said it was just a fluke that people on both coasts got sick at the same time…but I knew better.”
 
He nodded in self-satisfaction.
 
“I said to the Mayor, ‘Now Billy, we got ourselves a situation here,’ yes, sir.”

Sitch-yayshun
, Danny wrote in his notebook.
 
He suppressed a grin.
   

“I told him it weren’t natural.
 
I mean, them docs at the CDC all but admitted they know it was awful strange for the flu to move as fast as this bug does.
 
Don’t that just beat all?”

“And did the Mayor agree?” asked Danny.

“Not at first, but then again, ol’ Billy was always a little slow on the uptake.
 
He’s a good man, decent human being and all, but if you ask me, he could stand to be a mite more…decisive.”

“You mean Mayor Williams?
 
I thought his name was Scott?”

The Chief grinned at the inside joke.
 
“Oh yeah, but we all call ‘im Billy.”

Danny was already making progress—gossip about a coworker, especially the mayor, from a high ranking civil servant was a sign the source was loosening up.
 
Danny respected the ‘you didn’t hear that from me’ moment by watching the Chief and not writing anything down.
 
The pig smiled and continued his story.

“When word came in that it was spreading south and folks in D.C. were getting sick by the hundreds and thousands…I guess that was what…oh, two, maybe three days after the first cases in California?
 
Anyway, when he realized it was coming closer, he turned me loose and said, ‘Auggie, you keep this town safe.
 
Do what has to be done.’
 
His exact words.”

Danny nodded again and scribbled some more:
Mayor an idiot—turned a blind eye.
 
He underlined
blind eye
and asked, “That was a lot faster than most places, I hear.
 
Were there any other specific actions you took that you can attribute to Brikston’s success at keeping this outbreak at bay?”

“Good Lord, yes.
 
We set up roadblocks on every road into town.
 
That part was easy—there’s only the three roads.
 
Well, four, if you count old Mack’s field access road.
 
But it’s more of a dirt path than anything.
 
Anyway,” the Chief said, waving his plump sausage-fingers to dismiss the farmer and his dirt road.
 
“What it comes down to is prevention.
 
We stopped anyone from entering town when things looked bad enough.
 
I credit that one action for protecting this town, more than anything else.”

Danny nodded again.
 
“Yet,” he said, pointing his pencil at the Chief thoughtfully, “the flu has made it into town—at least it seems likely.
 
People are getting sick, isn’t that true?”
 

The Chief of Police frowned, his face flushed.
 
“Well, yes.
 
But that was through no fault of ours.
 
That spy showed—I beg pardon, that man showed up as we were sealing off the town.
 
He slipped in just an hour or so before the off-ramp to the interstate was closed.”
 
He shrugged.
 
“Some say it’s bad timing.
 
Others, that he’s a spy and came here on purpose.”

“Getting to that,” said Danny.
 
“What’s your take, sir?”

“Me?”
 
The Chief harrumphed and folded his hands across his girth again.
 
“Well, now, since you asked, I think he’s guilty as sin.
 
I do.
 
The evidence is all right there, plain as day.
 
He shows up in town,” the Chief held up one sausage-link
 
finger.
 
“Just an hour before we shut down access.
 
That’s more than a little coincidence, right?
 
Then—”
 
Another finger.
 
“His car mysteriously happens to have a problem that will require him to be in town for three or four days—exactly the incubation period for—”

“The Blue Flu, yes—but Chief Murray, that was ten years ago.
 
The government hasn’t said if this is the same—”

“The
government!
”
 
He exhaled a great whoosh of air across the desk.
 
His breath smelled like cinnamon.
 
Danny glanced at the half-empty jar of candies on the Chief’s desk and hid a smile.