The John Milton Series Boxset 2

by Mark Dawson

  “Shit, shit, shit!”

  “Mallory?”

  “Sellar and Sturgess. They’re dead.”

  “What?”

  “Milton killed them. He did it like it was nothing. You didn’t see?”

  “I was pretty out of it. They’re back there?”

  “Yes.” Mallory slid away from them as much as she could and rested with her arms pressed between her back and the side of the vehicle. “What happened to you?”

  “They jumped me at the station,” Ellie said. “The deputy—”

  “Lundquist.”

  “He shot the sheriff.”

  Mallory hugged her knees to her chest.

  “Where’s Milton?” Ellie asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You better tell me what happened.”

  She breathed in and out, composing her thoughts.

  She told her about Leland turning up at the RV and trying to get her to come to the station.

  She told her about Michael Callow.

  She told her about how Milton had appeared out of nowhere, how he had killed Sellar and Sturgess just like that, as easy as shelling peas. She told her how she had watched him bury her old kitchen knife in Sturgess’s gut, yanking it all the way up even as he turned to face Leland, taking his gun from him and shooting Sellar in the head, like it was something he did every day.

  She told her how Callow had grabbed her, how Milton had aimed the pistol, and how she had known that he was going to fire.

  And then how Milton had been shot.

  By Morten Lundquist.

  What was happening to them?

  What had they run into?

  “They didn’t kill him?”

  She shook her head. “Shot him in the arm. He got the RV started and drove off. The deputy and Callow went after him.”

  “He’s gone?”

  She nodded. “You think he’s abandoned us?”

  “No,” she said. “I don’t.”

  Mallory squeezed her legs tighter, crushing them against her chest. She wished she had the same confidence.

  “Who’s driving?” Ellie asked.

  “Morris Finch. He’s a plumber. This is his van.”

  “Mallory?” The voice was faint and befuddled. “Mallory?”

  “I’m here, Arty!”

  Lightning flashed, and she saw his head move as he slowly brought it up.

  “Are you okay?”

  “My head,” he mumbled.

  “You got your ticket punched. You feel okay?”

  “Dizzy.”

  “Stay down there, then. It’ll clear.”

  “Eric and Reggie are dead.”

  “They got what was coming to them, Arty,” Mallory said, iron in her voice.

  “Is Ellie here?”

  “I’m here.”

  Mallory heard her brother shuffle around in Ellie’s direction.

  “Deputy Morten hit you, Ellie.”

  “I’m okay. I’ll live.”

  “Why did he hit you? She wasn’t doing nothing, was she, Mallory?”

  “No, she wasn’t.”

  “I don’t understand. Where are we?”

  Mallory composed herself. She knew she would need to stay calm or else he would freak, and that would just make things worse. But she would have to say something. “We’re in the back of Morris Finch’s van.”

  “Why?”

  “Michael Callow and Tom Chandler are angry with us.”

  “And Deputy Lundquist.”

  “Yes, and Deputy Lundquist. They’re taking us someplace. I think they want to talk to us.”

  “Why are they angry with us? Is it because of Mr. Milton?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I think it might be. Just stay there, okay? It’ll all be straightened out soon.”

  “And then we can go home?”

  “Yes,” she said, trying very hard to hide the fear in her voice.

  Ellie spoke for her. “That’s right, Arthur. It’ll all be straightened out, and then we can go home. Mallory, do you have a cellphone?”

  “No, and it wouldn’t matter. The storm’s taken the network out.”

  “Really?”

  “Was on the news.”

  “Maybe it’s fixed now. It’s worth a try. Do you think Sellar and Sturgess might have one?”

  Her stomach flipped. “You want me to look?”

  “I don’t know how easy it’d be for me to get over there.”

  She swallowed and turned around so that her back was facing the two dead bodies. By leaning backwards a little she was able to reach over to them and pat them down. She felt something in the breast pocket of the body nearest her, reached her hand inside, and pulled out a Motorola cellphone. She turned her back to Ellie and backed into the middle of the van so that she could pass the phone across.

  “Thanks.”

  Mallory saw a faint green glow from the other side of the van. Ellie had activated the cellphone, and the light from the screen glowed.

  “No signal.”

  “It’s the whole state north of Wausau.”

  “That’s great.”

  The van rumbled onwards, taking them farther away from town and into the countryside beyond.

  Ellie used the light from the cellphone to look around the inside of the van. Mallory saw racks of plumbing equipment above them, pipes and sockets and screws, and then, before she could stop herself, the confusion of arms and legs that was Sturgess and Sellar.

  “Oh, God.”

  “Mallory, I need you to do something for me,” Ellie said.

  She closed her eyes, and she could still see them.

  “Mallory.”

  “Yes?”

  “If I give you a number, will you be able to remember it?”

  She opened her eyes and stared across at the faint outline of her brother. “Arty can. He’s great with numbers.”

  That was an understatement. Arty had plenty of problems. But if there was one thing he was good at, it was remembering things. Mallory remembered the time when she had read aloud a page of the Truth telephone directory and he had recited back the first hundred names, just like that. The doctors they had seen when he was a little boy said that was one of the things that people with his condition could sometimes do.

  “Arty,” she said, “I need you to pay special attention, okay? Agent Ellie needs you to remember a number. Can you do that for her?”

  “Sure, Mallory.”

  “It’s very important.”

  “What is it? I’ll remember it. I’m good with numbers.”

  “I know you are. Go on, Ellie.”

  “Okay. Ready? 313-338-7786.”

  Mallory recognised it as a Detroit telephone number. “Have you got it?” she asked him.

  “Sure,” he said, as if what he had been asked to do, and the circumstances in which he had been asked to do it, were perfectly normal for him.

  “Repeat it to me.”

  “313-338-7786.”

  “Good.”

  “What do I need the number for?” he asked her.

  “That’s my partner’s number. Agent Clayton. I don’t know where they’re taking us, but maybe there’s a chance one of us can get away. If we can, we need to call him.”

  “The phones are down…”

  “Maybe they’ll be fixed then. He’ll be able to help us.”

  “Okay, Ellie. 313-338-7786. I got it.”

  Ellie said, “You too, Mallory. You need to remember it too.”

  “313-338-77—”

  “7786,” Arty finished for her as she stalled.

  “313-338-7786. Got it.” She tried to fix it in her mind, but she knew that she would forget.

  “Well done,” Ellie said. “Now. When we get to where we’re going, I want you to do whatever they tell you. No attitude. No lip. Got it?”

  “Yes,” Mallory said.

  “Arty?”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  They were quiet. Mallory might not be able to see where
they were going, but that didn’t mean she was helpless. She made sure she concentrated on everything else: how long they were travelling, the sounds that she could hear, the terrain that they passed over. The surface of the road was smooth for what she estimated was the first five minutes. Then, they rolled over a bump and then another bump, and she recognised the sound that the tyres on her car made when she crossed the railroad at the north end of town. They proceeded on asphalt for, she guessed, another ten minutes. When the van slowed down, the red taillights glowed through faulty housings, their light leaking into the back. They slowed right down, the axle creaking as they negotiated bumpy terrain.

  “What happened to Mr. Milton?” Arty asked.

  “He left,” Mallory said.

  “But he’ll come back for us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  THE VAN continued along the rough track for ten minutes, and then it swung around sharply to the right, the brake lights flashed again, and they slowed to a stop. The engine was turned off.

  “Where are we?” Arty asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  Mallory reflexively tensed her arms against the cuffs, but there was no give there, and all the effort did was make her wrists sore again.

  She heard a door at the front of the van open and the sound of feet dropped down onto the ground. She heard footsteps and then voices.

  A woman’s voice: “You want to tell me what’s going on? Seth says we got a problem.”

  “In a minute, Magrethe,” answered a man.

  “Seth says you’ve got two dead bodies in the back plus the two Stanton kids.”

  “And an FBI agent. So, yes, Magrethe, I’d say Seth was right, we do got a problem.”

  “Where’s Morten now?”

  “Busy. Says he’ll be here presently. Probably on his way now.”

  “Then you better tell me what in God’s name is going on tonight.”

  “The agent and another man went up to the mine and arrested Michael and the boys.”

  “What other man?”

  “There was an Englishman in town, got into a brawl at Johnny’s a couple nights ago. Mallory Stanton set the whole thing up, the whole expedition into the woods. She roped the guy and the agent into it.”

  “We know anything about him?”

  “Name’s Milton. That’s all.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Morten’s got it in hand. He won’t be a problem.”

  “But he brought the boys back?”

  “That’s right. Morten heard it over the radio, went to the jail, and busted them out.”

  Mallory recognised the man’s voice. It was Morris Finch.

  “What do you mean, he busted them out?”

  “What I said: he busted them out. Lester was there. He shot him.”

  “He shot Lester?”

  “No choice, Magrethe. What else was he going to do? If he did nothing, everything would’ve gone to shit. Everything we’ve been working for. The militia, God's word. You reckon those boys would’ve been able to keep their mouths shut if the FBI had gotten hold of them? Shit, no. Not because they ain’t loyal, but because they ain’t the smartest. There was no choice. It was Lester or us, Magrethe. Morten did what he had to do.”

  Magrethe. Seth. Mallory thought hard about that. Magrethe and Seth. The only Seth she knew had a farm out on the edge of town and, the more she thought about it, she was sure that Seth’s wife’s name began with an M.

  “You know where Lars is?”

  “Morten didn’t say. You can ask him.”

  “He got a call before the lines all went down, took off like a scalded cat.”

  “Morten will know. Come on, we got stuff to do. We got to put the agent and the Stantons out of the way for a bit. You got space in the other barn?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are we going to do with the bodies?”

  “We feed ’em to the pigs,” she said.

  “Wish I never asked.”

  Mallory heard footsteps splash through water.

  “Do what they say,” Ellie hissed.

  Mallory reached out with her leg and touched Arty’s knee with her foot. “Don’t do anything crazy, okay?”

  “Okay, Mallory. I won’t.”

  The handle turned, and the door opened. Morris Finch was standing there, water cascading from the brim of the wide hat he was wearing and his raincoat slick with run-off. He brought up a flashlight and shone it into the van. The beam shone into Mallory’s eyes, and she turned her head away.

  “Out,” Finch said.

  Mallory went first, getting her knees beneath her and then pushing up to her feet. She shuffled over to the door, stepping over the two bodies. Finch reached up and put his hands beneath her shoulders to help her jump down.

  The rain lashed onto her as Mallory took the chance to look around. They were in an open yard. A large oak tree was off to one side, a lean-to beneath the wide spread of its boughs. There was a farmhouse on the other side of the yard, old and in need of repair. There were lights on in the downstairs windows, and a yellow finger stretched out into the yard from the front door, which had been left ajar. Mallory didn’t recognise the building, but although it was dark, the place had the feeling of open ground.

  On the other side of the yard, opposite the farmhouse, was the track that they had followed to get to the farmhouse. Cars and pickup trucks were parked along the side of the road, and as she looked at them, she saw the lights of another car sweep across the barren fields as the driver turned off the main road. She could see the figures of people, just shadows in the darkness, hurrying through the rain.

  Arty jumped down. He stumbled in a puddle and bumped up against her. Morris reached across to steady him.

  “Come on,” Magrethe said. “I’m drowning out here.”

  Mallory turned in the direction of her voice and saw her just on the other side of the van. In one hand, she held a child’s umbrella open above her head, Minnie Mouse on the pink canopy. It looked ridiculous. In her other hand, she had a shotgun pointed down to the ground, the stock wedged up beneath her armpit.

  Finch reached into the van, caught Ellie beneath the shoulders, and pulled her out.

  “Come on, Morris,” Magrethe snapped. “Let’s go.”

  They walked on. The water drenched her, running down into her eyes and mouth, and since she couldn’t use her hands to clear it away, she had to duck her head instead. They went behind the lean-to, along a gravel path, around a waterlogged vegetable patch and then to one of two large barns that loomed out of the murkiness in front of them. One of the barns had been opened up, and a cascade of bright golden light poured out from the door. Mallory could see and hear people in the barn, and the figures she had seen hurrying from the cars in the lane trotted across and disappeared inside. To the side of the barn, Mallory could see the tractor cab of a large Freightliner semi. The trailer, if there was one, was out of sight behind the barn.

  Magrethe went to the door of the other, smaller barn and unlocked it with a key that she had in her hand. She opened the door and stood back a step. Finch raised his flashlight. Mallory saw agricultural machinery arranged around the inside of the large barn. There was a riding lawnmower, a plough attachment that would be towed behind a tractor, bags of feed and, wrapped in black polythene wrapping, bundles of silage.

  Magrethe levelled the shotgun. “In. Get.”

  “Can you take the cuffs off?” she asked.

  “All right,” Finch said.

  Magrethe scowled at him. “What are you doing?”

  “They’re kids, Magrethe. The shed’s secure, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “So there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Mallory turned so that Finch could get to the cuffs. He worked at them for a moment, and then the clasp opened and they fell free. He turned to Arty and released his cuffs, too.

  “What about her?” Mallory said, looking at Ellie.

  “I don’t think so.
”

  Finch quickly frisked all three of them. He found the cellphone that Ellie had kept and pocketed it. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he warned them. “You’re out in the middle of nowhere. There’s nowhere to go. No one will hear you. You try to get out, we’ll just cuff you again, fix you to the wall. Understand?”

  Mallory rubbed her sore wrists.

  “Now,” Magrethe said. “Get into the shed.”

  Arty hurried across until he was alongside her. “Mallory?” he said.

  “It’s all right.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “What is it?” the woman snapped irritably.

  “He doesn’t like the dark,” she explained.

  She rolled her eyes. “You tell him to get in there or we’ll throw him in.”

  Mallory ignored her, the harshness in her voice, and turned to her brother. “It’s okay, Arty. I’m here, too. I’ll go in with you. We’ll go in together.”

  She saw the fear on his face as he nodded that he would do that.

  “Everyone says he’s simple,” Finch said to Magrethe as they stepped inside.

  “Simple?” she said disdainfully. “People walk around on eggshells when it comes to things like that. It’s better to call a spade a spade. He’s a retard, Morris, that’s what he is. A fucking retard.”

  The door clanged shut behind them, and they were plunged into total darkness.

  “Mallory!” Arty exclaimed fearfully.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I’m here. Stay where you are.” She shuffled her feet in the direction of his voice until she bumped up against him. “Here I am.”

  “It’s dark.”

  “I know it is.”

  Mallory waited for a moment, willing her eyes to adjust. There was a little grey light that came from the roof, and after a moment, she began to make out the outline of the equipment that she had seen from outside. She stepped ahead carefully, leading her brother, until they had crossed the shed and were up against the wall.

  “Mallory?” Arty said plaintively. “Mallory, I don’t like it in here.”

  She waited a moment to reply, waiting until she could control the quaver that she knew would be in her voice. “We’ll be just fine,” she said. “Sit down next to me.”

  He did as he was told.

  She lowered herself to the ground. It was dry, a minor blessing. She rested her back against the corrugated metal wall.