Authors: Grant McKenzie
CHAPTER
47
Julia’s was the only voice of reason to break through the hail of gunfire and stop the onslaught.
One by one the deputies stopped firing as Julia yelled at them through their radios. None of them knew what to do. Marshall was lying on the ground in front of them, his body shaking as the lifeblood pumped out of severed legs.
His voice called to them, pleaded with them to help him.
Finally, Julia called to the cabin, “Will you allow us to retrieve our sheriff?”
There was no answer.
Julia took a deep breath before saying into the radio, “Cover me while I go to him.”
As Julia scrambled into the clearing, keeping her body low to the ground, she failed to notice that Finn had disappeared.
THE TREES SEEMED
thicker and darker on the far side of the clearing, providing perfect cover as Finn slowly circled around the cabin.
At the side of the house, he came across the smaller clearing that contained the vegetable garden. It looked strange in the early light of dawn. The garden was neat and perfect with all the plants clearly marked in precise, straight rows. The rich, black soil showed that it had been lovingly weeded and cared for.
He stepped out of the brush and carefully made his way between rows of peas and carrots towards the cabin. He could see parts of the larger clearing through the trees and he saw Julia closing in on the dying sheriff. He picked up his pace, hoping he could reach the side window in time to stop Big Brother from claiming another life.
Before he was halfway across the garden, Finn heard a muffled groan from beside the back porch. He stopped in his tracks to listen more carefully and saw a pile of dirt rise from the ground as a hidden trapdoor was pushed skyward.
A figure emerged from the hole with a shotgun on steroids in its hand. Finn froze, his breath caught in his chest at the sight. The figure turned around and spotted him.
It grinned.
Finn couldn’t believe his eyes. Standing before him was a near-perfect duplicate of Sheriff Marshall. The face looked meaner, the hair wilder and the clothes more ragged, but he was still identical.
Finn brought up the Glock. It felt tiny in his hand compared to the other’s shotgun. Suddenly, fear washed over him as he wondered if the gun had a manual safety. He should have asked Julia.
The figure pulled itself out of the hole and leveled the gaping barrel of the automatic shotgun directly at him. It was a gun that Arnold Schwarzenegger would use to take out a tank in one of his action movies.
“It’s time to join your little stripper friend,” Big Brother said.
Finn’s eyes flared with anger, but he couldn’t risk firing the gun and have nothing happen because he didn’t know where the damn safety was. Self-preservation cut through his panic and made him turn to dash back for the trees. He knew he wouldn’t make it before he took the second step, but then something snagged his foot and he fell to the dirt just as a series of loud booms filled the air.
Finn spun in the dirt, surprised to find he was alive and unmarked. Whatever tripped him had saved his life. He found the Glock lying in the dirt and instantly had it back in his hand. Hoping that the safety was off, he squeezed the trigger and felt the gun spit fire.
The man grunted, stumbled and clutched at his left leg. Finn scrambled to his feet as the figure took off, disappearing into the orange glare of the newborn sun.
Finn gave chase along a beaten trail that led to an old wooden barn standing on its last legs behind the house. An owl glared at him from a jagged hole in the roof. As Finn closed in, he heard the rumble of an engine come to life.
His lungs burning, Finn ran harder towards the building. Before he could reach it, the wooden doors splintered open and a truck roared into the clearing. Finn held his breath and fired again, watching with little satisfaction as the rear window shattered without slowing the truck in the slightest.
JULIA SKIDDED IN
the dirt by the sheriff’s side as the sound of a handgun echoed through the clearing. The sheriff was losing a lot of blood and he was babbling incoherently, but the only words she could clearly make out were ‘Barbara’ and ‘Sorry’.
Without hesitation, Julia peeled off her jacket to tie the sleeves tightly around Marshall’s ruined legs and slow the flow of blood. As she wound the makeshift tourniquets tight, a pickup truck broke from the nearby barn.
Julia’s lips curled into a sneer as the truck bore down on her, its headlights shattered, the leering face behind the windshield somehow familiar. Without hesitation, she grabbed up her shotgun, pulled it tight against her shoulder and fired.
The first shell blasted through the front grill, releasing a jet of steam from the punctured radiator. The second shell followed an identical path as the first, punching deeper into the engine, shredding pipes and hoses. Julia didn’t have time for a third.
Inside the cab, Big Brother fought the wheel in a desperate attempt to keep it straight. The truck lurched off the ground, balanced on two wheels and threatened to topple over. When it crunched back down, Julia rolled out of the way, dragging the sheriff with her.
The front wheels missed Marshall’s head by an inch.
A half-dozen shotguns went off at once from the perimeter of the clearing, shredding the tires and ripping through the flimsy metal walls.
It wasn’t enough.
Big Brother broke free of the clearing in a cloud of oil and steam to vanish into the forest.
CHAPTER
48
The morning sun reflected brightly off the strands of yellow police tape that surrounded both the clearing and the house.
Agent Cryre Rayne’s team of investigators was due to take charge and Julia felt drained. The bullet-riddled truck had been found nose-down in a pit, and every deputy on the force was searching the forest.
Julia scanned the circus, looking for Finn. She spotted him off to one side of the house, kicking in the dirt.
“What are you up to?” Julia asked as she walked around a small thicket to discover the neat garden patch full of green-leaf vegetables.
Finn shrugged. “Something tripped me. Saved my life. I was just looking to see what it was.”
“Find anything?”
“Not yet, but—” Finn stopped as his foot uncovered a piece of white bone. He bent down to study it more closely and discovered it was attached to more. “Look at his.” He scraped away the mud.
When Julia got nearer she saw what looked to be the skeletal remains of a hand sticking out of the ground. She yelled for the forensics team as Finn reached down and removed an unusual band of twisted gold from one of its bony fingers.
“What are you doing?” Julia asked.
“I know who this belongs to,” Finn answered. “This is Harold Abery.”
CHAPTER
49
Special Agent Cryre Rayne stood in the open yard, trying to imagine what had occurred before his arrival. The corpse of a young student barely out of his teens was slumped by the cabin’s front door. An empty shotgun hung limp from the crook of his arm. A puddle of blood dried at his feet, a thousand-strong army of flies and mosquitoes already invading his bullet-riddled flesh.
A second body had been found in a tunnel beneath the shack. That body had been beaten so badly it would take dental records to ID it, but because it was only a few days old, Cryre figured he had likely found his missing rape victim.
The assistant coroner — whose thinning hair made him look older than his years — yapped in Cryre’s ear about the incompetence of the deputies who wouldn’t allow him to take the bodies away until the F.B.I. had a chance to gawk.
“You can take them now,” Cryre said. His voice betrayed nothing — the perfect agency blend of ‘I’m listening’ and ‘Fuck off’.
The coroner dashed across the yard, his eyes bright with excitement as if he couldn’t wait to slice his scalpel across the victims’ cold, dead flesh. Two white-coated medical technicians chased after him, looking equally thrilled.
Cryre studied more of the yard. Every member of his team was busy gathering information about who and what they were dealing with.
Lucia Brown, who hid a heart-shaped face behind thin, saucer-size glasses, was on her hands and knees scraping away the wet soil that confined a human skeleton. Lucia’s task was to uncover the skull, get a dental match, and then lead a team of deputies to see if he was sharing the shallow grave with any others.
Duncan Little and Lyle Freeman — both quiet and professionally meticulous — were inside the cabin, examining every square inch from floorboards to rafters. They were joined by Hillary Buttersworth — a psychologist with a chilling, unnerving stare — who was trying to determine from his belongings what made Rodney Marshall tick and, if possible, where he might run to.
That left Ted Three-Crows and Gene Chowder. Ted — a balloon-faced cherub with a love for guns — was helping the search party by making sure everyone traveled in pairs and knew exactly how dangerous their prey could be. Gene — a stern-faced man with a natural streak of white in his hair that oddly bleached one eyebrow while leaving the other untouched — was sitting on a waterproof tarp in the spot Sheriff Marshall had lay bleeding. A math whiz, he was calculating the direction and number of shots fired in the melee. He was aided by a powerful laptop computer that he cradled like a kitten.
The storm that had threatened to wash their evidence away had dissipated as the sun rose, but still Cryre felt uneasy as he watched the red-blush sky turn murky blue. It reminded him of a saying his father often uttered in place of communication: Red sky in morning; a shepherd’s warning. He was never quite sure what it was supposed to imply.
A whisper of wind behind him made Cryre turn. Julia stood there patiently, her face tired and bleak, her silver deputy’s shield looking tarnished and cheap.
Cryre allowed her a rare on-the-job smile.
“I hear you were responsible for getting the men back under control after the sheriff was shot. Good work.”
“I was just doing what I’d been taught.” Her voice was tense, shaky.
Cryre dimmed his smile. “Anyone can get top marks in the classroom, deputy. It’s a different story out here. Don’t sell yourself short.”
Julia nodded and scuffed her shoes in the damp dirt.
“Something I can do for you?” Cryre asked.
“I was wondering if I could go to the hospital, see how Sheriff Marshall is doing?”
Cryre shook his head. “There’ll be nothing to see for at least a couple more hours. It would be best if you went home, got some rest and left your visit until tonight.”
“Will you be needing guards?”
Cryre’s eyes softened. The deputy’s mind was still focused on the case. She understood if the sheriff lived, he was a loose end — perfect bait. He would need to keep an eye on her; smart people who kept their cool under fire were a rare commodity.
“I’ve ordered two outside the sheriff’s room, plus one more at each entrance. Every face going in will be scrutinized. There will be a list of shifts posted at the station by this afternoon. Your name will be on it.”
Julia nodded and turned to leave. Cryre stopped her.
“By the way?” he said. “I understand a civilian wounded our suspect with your gun. Can he be trusted to keep his mouth shut? I don’t want anyone talking to the media until I give the OK.”
Julia looked over at Finn who was leaning against a battle-scarred tree near the dirt road. His face was sunken, almost hollow. When he returned her gun, he had asked where the safety was. When she explained that it was on the trigger and automatically disengaged when you squeezed, he had looked crestfallen.
“I’ll talk to him,” she said. “He can be trusted.”
CHAPTER
50
Willy despised media scrums.
Nothing worth writing about was ever uncovered in the sweaty armpits of a media mob. If anything, you risked getting slapped with a sexual harassment suit if your elbow so much as brushed the plastic boob of some television personality whose only skill was being able to read aloud.
Willy stood back by the abandoned patrol cars, his eyes peeled for the cops who managed to skirt around the crowd. Years on the beat taught him that the cops who talked the least were tossed as bait to the sharks, while the ones with the answers used the distraction to slip past.
The late-morning sun was licking its lips over a feast of wispy cloud when Willy spotted Finn and Julia pushing through the throng of fresh reporters, photographers and talking heads. The pair kept their heads lowered and their mouths shut as half-a-dozen video cameras with blinding portable lights beamed their tired faces to newsrooms around the country. Their shoulders drooped noticeably as though someone had placed invisible bags of cement on each one, and their feet plopped heavily to the ground with each step.
Willy grinned as a public relations flack standing behind the yellow police tape barrier took the opportunity to clear his throat and toss a worthless scrap of information into the famished crowd. Immediately, Finn and the deputy were forgotten as all lenses and microphones turned to the new voice.
Wily hurried over to the departing duo.
“Fame is fleeting, huh Finn?”
“Don’t start, Willy,” Finn answered. “It’s been a long night and our defenses are weak.”
“That’s what I count on,” Willy grinned. “Can I buy you both a coffee?”
Julia’s eyes widened. “I would kill for a coffee.” If she hadn’t sounded so pitiful it would have been a funny line.
Willy laughed anyway. “Tell you what. I’ve rented a car and I found a little cafe in town that whips up a terrific plate of bacon and eggs with homemade hash and onions.”
“We can’t talk about the investigation,” Julia said, her starved expression betraying that her stomach was rumbling at the mere thought of food.
“Hey, I understand,” Willy said. “But I also know that when you can talk, you’ll want to talk to me, right?”
Finn and Julia rolled their eyes in unison.
“Get us the hell out of here,” Finn said, “and you’ve got a deal.”
WITHIN TWENTY MINUTES
of their arrival at Jenny’s Truck Stop, all three plates were wiped clean, leaving only circular smears of grease and egg yolk to show where mounds of food had been. The trio also emptied the coffee pot, which had been abandoned on their table by a gum-chewing waitress.
“Man, that hit the spot.” Willy patted his stomach and stuck an unlit cigarette between his lips. “Nothing like a good feast to dull the horror of death.”
Finn glared at him. “Don’t start, Willy. We can’t talk about it.”
“I’m insulted,” Willy said. “I already know two deputies were killed and the sheriff is in emergency following a shoot-out. I was merely going to ask why there’s so much hush-hush over the identity of the suspect.”
Julia wiped the grease from her lips with a paper napkin. “The FBI is in charge now, but I’m sure they’ll release details soon.”
“Is it the same guy who killed the coroner, the stripper and the cook?” Willy asked.
“I can’t answer that,” replied Julia.
“What about the guy who attacked you last night and ended up with his brains splattered on your ceiling? What’s his connection?”
“How do you know about that?” Julia’s face turned a paler shade of white.
“The blood and brain matter was my first clue. Your landlord let me take a peek and there were no cops around to stop me. So how is he, whoever he happens to be, tied into all this?”
“I can’t answer that either.”
“But he is tied in.”
“No comment.”
Willy shrugged and signaled to the waitress for more coffee. The look on her face said the concept of free refills was now under review.
“I’m just trying to do my job,” Willy said, sipping his fresh coffee. “Every vulture in the country is descending on this little town to write the epilogue on the story that I broke. But they only want a quick fix, a splash on the front page and a news-at-six teaser, then forget about it. I want the whole story from beginning to end. Hell, there may even be a book deal in it. I know a guy at Random House.”
“It hasn’t ended yet,” Finn said.
“What do you mean?” Willy prodded.
“You can’t write the ending until the bastard is dead.”
Willy grinned. “Thanks, Finn. You just wrote my lead.”
Julia glared at them both.
THE DOGS HAD
the scent of blood in their snouts. Their baying came closer with every hour, his tricks failing to throw them off the trail for long. They were smarter than their human partners — puffed up sheep with steel-jacketed courage and gunpowder brains — and once they had the scent of blood, they never released it.
Big Brother touched his leg and winced. His compress of moss, dirt and herbal leaves wasn’t stopping the flow of blood. The bullet must still be inside, gnawing at the muscle, poisoning his blood. He could lose the leg without proper medical treatment.
He hammered a fist into the mud wall of his hideout and cursed his betraying brother. It was difficult to believe he had been so wrong about his sibling’s weakness. The image of the shotgun blasts that toppled his brother flashed before him. Little Brother must have suffered terribly: screaming in agony, blood rushing from his torn limbs, desperate attempts to call for help. And yet, it didn’t seem enough. He should have been made to pay more for his betrayal. He should have died slower.
The growl of a beast filtered through the mud-caked branches above him. The dogs had found him, despite his precautions. His hideout, little more than a five-foot-deep grave, was invisible to man. The dead things in the corner were supposed to disguise his scent from the beasts, but his leg wound had betrayed him. Man’s blood was so much richer to the hounds.
A dog began to bark and paw at the ground. Big Brother listened, separating the sounds, until he was certain the beast was alone — a rogue hunter.
Pulling himself into a crouch, he lifted his hands to the ceiling and used his ears to guide him to the proper spot.
The dog barked more frantically, and in the distance, Big Brother heard its brethren reply.
Using his legs to supply the power, Big Brother shoved his hands straight up. His curled fingers smashed through dirt, branches and a carpet of leaves before crunching into the warm flesh of the beast’s throat. The dog yelped in surprise and fear before its neck was savagely twisted to the side until it snapped.
Big Brother pulled himself out of the hole to stand over the beast. A faint whistle of air drained from its nose and a trickle of blood slid down its lolling tongue. He stared at the beast in victory before lifting his good leg to kick it hard in the ribs, forcing it to slide into the yawning gap of the pit. He quickly covered the hole again with small branches and dirt.
Hopefully the other beasts would drag their servants to the hideout, wasting more time in the belief he was still hiding inside.
His wounded leg was stiff and sore, but Big Brother shut out the pain and hobbled further into the woods. His shotgun acted more like a crutch now than a weapon, but at least he knew where he had to go.
FINN STUDIED JULIA’S
face. She looked older now, the angles of her face sharper, more noticeable. The events of the last several hours had burned away the remaining few ounces of baby-fat innocence. Finn knew the look well, it had happened to him more years ago than he cared to recall.
Even her voice had lost some of its softness, but that could have something to do with her bumming cigarettes off Willy as they stood in the parking lot outside the diner. Now, with her supplier returned to the crime scene, she had returned to chewing fingernails.
“You look tired,” Finn said.
“You don’t look great either.”
“Touché. Frankly, I’m not going to be worth a damn until I get some sleep.”
Julia groaned. “Where am I going to go? The apartment’s been cordoned off.”
Finn laughed. “I have the same problem. Percy kicked me out of the hotel.”
“We’re pathetic,” Julia said, joining in the laughter.
Finn thought for a moment. “There’s a motel two blocks south. If you carry me the first block, I’ll carry you the second.”
Julia laughed again. “I’ll race you. Last one there pays for the rooms.”
“I get a head start, right?” Finn said, but Julia was already moving.
“WHAT DO YOU
mean there’s only one room left?” Finn protested to the white-haired man behind the counter of the cramped motel office.
Behind the manager, a television blared from a tiny room decorated with bowling trophies, mismatched chairs, and a portable oxygen tank. A clear plastic facemask dangled by the side of the tank.
“I have one room,” said the man, his voice trembling like Katherine Hepburn. “One room only. I have newspaper and television people from all over wanting my rooms. Some big story. A good thing, too. We don’t get many tourists this time of year and I like to be busy. This room is last one because it has twin beds. Everyone wants to be a Queen.”
“We’ll take it,” Julia said, snapping up the key and turning heel out of the office.
When Finn caught up to her, Julia said, “Remember, I own a gun and know how to use it.”
JULIA DROWNED HERSELF
in the scalding hot spray of the shower with her arms wrapped tight around her body, fearful she would fall apart. Tears — from exhaustion, anger or fear, she didn’t know — ran from her eyes to be washed away in the torrent.
She heard them whisper ‘come with us’ as they were swept down the drain and out to sea. Part of her wished she could go, to become that little girl who always dreamed of growing up and leaving the farm, but a new voice scolded her for the thought.
If her mother taught her anything, it was that she wasn’t a quitter.
The shower began to turn cold. Julia turned off the taps and wrapped herself in a stiff brown towel. The name of the motel was stenciled in white across its bottom. She didn’t want to get dressed again; her clothes were stiff with mud and spotted with the sheriff’s blood.
Wrapped in the towel, Julia opened the bathroom door to peek out. Finn was lying on the bed closest to the front door with his back to her. His heavy breathing indicated he had fallen asleep on top of the covers without even taking off his shoes.
Julia tiptoed over to the other bed, pulled down the covers, dropped her towel and slipped inside. The pocket was cold and the sheets were stiff, but within seconds, exhaustion claimed her.
FINN KNEW SELENE
was dead. The woman standing before him was made of nothing more than mist.
She smiled with all the innocence of a newborn, her arms spread wide in anticipation of a hug. Despite knowing what she was, Finn walked forward and embraced her, crushing her body against his own.
“I miss you,” he said.
Selene remained silent as she stroked his hair like a mother comforting a frightened child. Finn felt himself becoming lost in the hypnotic rhythm, but just as he surrendered to the pleasure, it changed. The strokes became rougher and faster until Finn felt as if his hair was being ripped out by the roots.
He pushed Selene away to discover it was no longer her. Standing in her place with eyes like a rabid wolf was the face of Sheriff Marshall. No, not the sheriff
his brother.
Finn lunged at him, hands locking around the killer’s throat. He squeezed, growling like an animal as the air hissed from the bastard’s throat. Rodney’s eyes rolled back in his head, but then he changed again and Selene’s terrified face screamed for mercy.
Finn’s hands didn’t loosen their grip as Selene struggled beneath him. Finn knew the killer was trying to trick him, that it wasn’t really Selene, but her face . . . the pleading of her eyes. Finn released his grip and cradled her against his chest.
“Forgive me,” he cried out. “Please forgive me.”
Selene became the killer once more, only this time he clutched a butcher’s knife in one hand. Before Finn could react, the knife plunged deep into his chest, breaking ribs as though they were nothing more than dried kindling.
Finn’s eyes snapped open, his face drenched in sweat. His scream, thankfully, remained locked in his throat. He wasn’t about to give the bastard that satisfaction — not even in dream.
Shivering, Finn kicked off his shoes, pulled back the covers and burrowed deeper into the warmth of the mattress to fall asleep once more.