by Tom Bont
Angela took the lead and crept to the right across the dusty, wooden floor. Danny stalked left. They stayed hidden behind the control consoles should the alien, or monster, or whatever Task Force W called these things, chose to swivel around. As she got to her side of the console, she chanced a peek around the corner. One stretcher contained a woman, the second one, a man. The third one held one of those chupacabras…chupacabri…
What the hell is plural for chupacabra?
All three were restrained. Danny crouched below the other end of the console, one eye on her and the other on the alien. She nodded once and stood up.
“Freeze! FBI!” she yelled, “Cease all…cross-universe experiments and put your hands behind your head.” Considering the FBI refused to train her on how to arrest cross-dimensional beings, she was quite pleased with herself and her ad-lib adjustments.
Hollingsworth
By
Tom Bont
Copyright © 2019 by Tom Bont
Cover Art by http://www.sabercore23-art.com/
All rights reserved. This book or any part thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.
First Printing: 2019
Paperback ISBN 978-0-9962417-7-9
[email protected]
To my wife, Angela.
Thank you for allowing me to indulge in this, my latest whim.
And to the lupis who almost got me…
Tag, you’re it!
Season 1
Episode 1: Redstick, Texas
Episode 2: Task Force W
Episode 3: Twins
Episode 4: Doorman
Episode 5: Reunion
Episode 6: Morstat
Episode 7: Responsibility
Latin to English Translations
About the Author
Lagniappe
The first episode of Hollingsworth, “Redstick, Texas,” appeared in Road Kill: Texas Horror by Texas Writers as the short story, “Redstick.” Fans who read it strongly suggested that it would make for an exciting start to a whole new adventure.
Voila!
I want to thank Beverly, Jan, Kate, and Kathy for their help with editing and crawling inside a woman’s mind. They are now part of Angela Hollingsworth.
I would also like to thank the DFW Writers’ Workshop for their assistance and critiques. They have helped me refine my craft. Any errors or mistakes are only because I failed, not them.
Episode 1: Redstick, Texas
“H ollingsworth,” Angela mumbled into the phone. Moonlight shimmered through her window, and a blurry 5:02 AM glowed on the digital clock face.
“Agent Hollingsworth,” a frantic voice babbled, “I…I need yer help and raht now!”
She sat up in bed. The voice… “Ambrose?”
“Yeah! I—”
“How the hell did you get this number?” She jumped up from the bed, and the wisps of a beach vacation dream evaporated.
“Yer business card.”
Trick! grumbled through her head. “What do you want?”
“To confess…to everything! But you hafta’ get me outta here!”
Angela’s blood pressure spiked. She started the recording app on her phone. The conversation wouldn’t hold up in court, but it would certainly go a long way toward helping her case. “Daryl, I’m recording this conversation. Is that okay?”
“Yes. Fuckin’, yes! Just come ‘n get me!”
“Okay, repeat what you just said.”
She recognized the sounds of fear as they crowded her ear, heavy breathing, smacking lips. “I said I wanna confess to everything, but you gotta help me! They’re comin’ for me!”
“Settle down, Daryl. Who’s coming for you?”
“Crazies, I think.” His voice faded as if he turned to look over his shoulder, away from the handset. “Hell, I don’t know! I just know they got really big-assed dogs.”
A tractor-trailer roared through the call’s background. “Where are you?” She tapped the speaker button on her phone and set it next to her laptop.
“Outside Redstick, Texas.”
She brought up a mapping site but kept talking. “Okay, Daryl, go to the local police station. If you can’t find that, there’s a diner on the main strip. Should be open this time of morning.”
“Okay, but yer comin’ to get me though, raht?”
“Yes.” She looked at the caller ID. “This number good to call you back?”
“No, it’s a pay phone.”
“A pay phone?”
“Yeah. It’s an old gas station. North of town, I think.”
“Okay, Daryl. Repeat what I want you to do.”
“Go to the police and if they’re closed, go to the diner.”
“Good, Daryl. Good. We’re coming.” She hung up and called her boss. He was a good man. He’d take care of this.
“Angela?” She could almost smell the second cup of coffee in his voice. She hated morning people.
“Evan, listen to this.” While the recording played back, she glanced at her sleep-mangled black hair in the mirror and decided with a grimace she didn’t have time for a shower. Makeup either. She kicked her nightgown to the corner, put her hair into a ponytail, and took a “Marine Shower” as her brother used to say…lots of deodorant.
When the recording finished, Evan whistled lowly. “Why would he do that?”
“Something spooked him,” she mumbled around her toothbrush. “Maybe his conscience woke up. Don’t really care, though.” Spit. “We got the bastard!”
“Ang, don’t go off half-cocked. The U.S. Attorney got a black eye last time because the evidence was so weak. We need a good confession or good evidence this time, or we’ll both be reading fertilizer invoices for the rest of our careers.”
“Afraid of a little bad publicity?” she teased.
“Damn right, I am. My wife likes that supervisor paycheck I bring home. Keeps her in satin sheets and that Audi. Says it makes up for me not being there all the time.”
“Don’t worry, Evan. I want this twisted fuck nailed to the wall this time. If all I wanted were to see him off the streets, I’d have shot him in front of the courthouse.” When the judge dismissed all charges against him, they bumped into each other on the front steps of the courthouse. He didn’t say anything to her, but his laughing eyes spoke plenty. Her hands still shook at the memory of his smirk.
Her own blue eyes stared back at her from the mirror. “Teenagers, Evan. Those three girls were teenagers, for Christ’s sake.” She trailed off as the bloody scenes flashed before her. “I can’t believe we can’t find one damn witness.”
“I know. But if you look up ‘Average American Male’ in the dictionary, his picture is listed next to the definition. On top of that, no credit, lives in his truck, collects a disability check once a month. He’s well-nigh invisible in a crowd. Hell, the only reason I knew he was in the courtroom last week was because he smelled bad.”
“Smelled bad? Damn, you’ve got a sensitive nose.”
He chuckled. “You even know where Redstick’s at?”
“North of Caddo Lake. Texas side of the border across from Fouke, Arkansas.”
“You want me to send someone from Shreveport? They’re closer than Fort Worth.”
“Hell, no! This is my case.”
“All right. Besides, if anyone knows their way around a small town, it’s you.”
“You trying to make me quit?”
“Sorry. I forgot how much you like to hide your roots.” He took a long, deep breath. “All right. I’ll call local law enforcement and have them hold Ambrose on a vagrancy charge until the U.S. Attorney okays his arrest. I
n the meantime, you go get that confession.”
The lanky, wizened police chief walked up the sidewalk and stuck his hand out. “You must be Agent Hollingsworth. I’m Chief Wilcox.”
He had a friendly enough look on his face but considering she was there to take custody of a child killer, he seemed too pleasant in her opinion. She figured Evan hadn’t filled him in on the particulars of the case.
“Thanks for your help.” They shook hands, and through unspoken agreement, strode into his office, her legs taking two strides to his one.
“Aw, think nothing of it! And call me Jim. How was your drive?” he asked.
“Long. But fine, thanks. And call me Angela. My apologies for sounding impatient, but I need to see Ambrose. Where are you keeping him?”
Jim took his hat off and scratched a balding pate. “We don’t have him. He didn’t show up here. An officer has been sitting at the diner since, um—” He pulled out a small notebook and flipped through a couple of pages. “Since Agent Evan Welch called this morning at 5:30.”
Angela clenched her fists, turned in a slow circle, and made a beeline for the women’s bathroom. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Five minutes away, and no one went to get him! Maybe they should change the town’s name to Redneck.
The thought brought a sarcastic snicker and turned the heat down on her boiling temper. She crammed a piece of gum into her mouth and chewed at it as if she was trying to gnaw through saddle leather, a habit she learned at the academy; it was better than opening her mouth when she shouldn’t have. She stopped flexing her hands long enough to relieve her bladder and went back out into the main office. “Can you take me to the diner?”
“Sure,” Jim said, “Not sure what you’re looking for. My officer would have called if your suspect had shown up.”
“I just want to look around, ask a few questions.”
Jim rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “Yes, ma’am.” He turned to an older woman sitting by a bank of telephones and an antiquated dispatch radio. She had a thick book in her hands, Stephen King’s Silver Bullet. “Helen, I’ll be at the Lucky Star.”
“Surprise. Surprise.” She never looked up from her book.
Redstick obviously didn’t know how to petition the federal government for law enforcement cash because Jim led her out to an older model Ford Expedition. It had seen better days, but Angela had to admit it was still comfortable. There was a child seat, a plushy snake, and a primary reader in the backseat. “You do much cop-type work out of your personal vehicle?”
Jim glanced over his shoulder as he snapped on his seat belt. “All of it when I don’t have the grandkids with me.” A crooked grin crossed his face. “Don’t see much trouble around here.” He twisted the key in the ignition. “Occasional out of town hunter with a little too much beer in his belly and not enough brains in his head. And any of the kids who get in trouble, we just call their parents at the scene. Folks around here respect each other. And the law.”
Idyllic, 1950s Americana. That was Redstick.
Three old men sat in front of the barbershop. The man pumping gas at the service station wore an attendant’s uniform. Main Street was spotless, and the local postman walked with a spring in his step like he enjoyed every minute of his job. When Angela and Chief Wilcox pulled up in front of the diner, Angela swore she smelled homemade apple pie.
The diner was full of an early lunch crowd. When the little bell mounted over the wood frame and glass door announced their arrival with a ting-a-ling-a-ling, most everyone turned from their meals and either waved or shouted a friendly greeting. To the left ran a long counter fronting the steamy kitchen behind it.
An officer in a steam-pressed uniform with creases so sharp they seemed aerodynamic met them right inside the doorway. Jim said, “Special Agent Angela Hollingsworth, this is Officer Danny McIver.”
The officer grabbed her hand and shook it. “A real-life FBI agent, here in Redstick? Heck, I ain’t never woulda’ guessed it!”
“Settle down, Danny. Don’t shake her shootin’ hand off.”
“Well, that ain’t my shootin’ hand, but let’s leave it there anyway, okay?” she said as she tested all of her fingers. She chastised herself; did I really just say ain’t?
“Oh, sorry, ma’am.” Danny spun around and quick-stepped over to a table. “Here, I been holdin’ these seats for y’all in case you showed up.”
Angela smiled. “Thanks, but I’d like to talk to everyone if I may.”
Jim lifted his hands into the air and raised his voice, “Can I have everyone’s attention, please? This is Special Agent Hollingsworth with the FBI. She’d like to ask y’all a few questions.”
As soon as all eyes were on her, she pulled a picture of Daryl Ambrose out of her briefcase and held it up. “I am looking for this man. He called me this morning from a gas station north of town. I need to know if anyone knows where he is or if anyone’s seen him.” She handed the picture to a young woman sitting near her. “Please pass it around, ma’am.”
A man from the back of the room spoke up. “What did he do?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. This is an ongoing investigation, but I can assure you it is imperative we get him off the streets. He’s driving a ‘97 Chevy, supercab pickup. Red, but one of the passenger side doors is blue.”
An old woman sitting in the back spoke up in a voice reminiscent of rusty nails being pulled from an old windowsill. “Bad folk don’t last long ‘round here,” she cackled as she returned to her plate of food.
“Why’s that, ma’am?”
Danny grimaced, and Jim stepped up. “Thanks, Mrs. Haster.” He leaned in and whispered in Angela’s ear. “That’s Ma Haster. She lost her marbles well over twenty years ago.”
Angela stepped back and waited while everyone passed the picture around. She watched for reactions, trying to glean if anyone was hiding anything or not. Small, jerky movements. Lip biting. Itchy noses. Avoiding looking at the picture. Bouncing knees. Popping knuckles. Nothing. There was one cowboy in tight-fitting jeans. No more cowboys!
When the picture made its way back, Jim stood up next to her. “Thanks, everyone. If you see him, please call the police.” He turned to Angela. “You might as well eat while you’re here. We can stop by the 47 afterwards.”
“The 47?”
“The gas station north of town. That’s when old man Henshaw built it, 1947, after the war. Lived in the back until he died about twenty years ago. His son owns it now.”
“I don’t suppose it’s got a security camera, does it?”
Danny sputtered, “Oh, crap!” He snatched his cell phone off his belt and pulled up some pictures before handing it across the table to Angela. “I forgot with all the excitement of actually meeting you. There’s a cash machine there. I called the bank, and they sent the pictures to me. That there’s his truck!” Jim looked at Danny with surprise on his face.
As she was forwarding the pictures to her email account, Jim’s radio squawked to life. “Chief, I got a report of a 10-45 David out on Hobart Road with that early model, red Chevy pickup.”
Jim looked over at Angela and keyed his microphone. “Definitely 45 David?”
“Affirmative. That’s what Hobe said.”
“Thanks, Helen. We’re Code 3, lights only.”
Code 10-45 David meant a dead body. Code 3 indicated lights and siren, but Jim modified it to lights-only. If the body was at the same scene as Ambrose’s truck, it might be Ambrose. She hoped not. She wanted him to answer for his crimes. Death was too easy for him. “Any ID on the body?”
Jim radioed Helen. “Helen, any ID on the 45 David?”
“Negative, Chief.”
They climbed into the Expedition, and everyone in the diner watched them through the windows. Exciting day in Redstick.
Angela and Jim drove out to the south of town and into a large thicket. The road they used had changed from asphalt to gravel a couple of miles back. They traveled deeper and deeper into the
forest. “How long before we get there, you think?” she asked.
“Pretty soon.”
“How do you know that?”
“This is Hobart Road,” he said, pointing ahead. “We’ve been on ol’ Hobe’s land for about 10 minutes now. Any farther, and we’ll be off his land.”
Sure enough, they rounded a bend, and up ahead two trucks were parked by the side of the road. One was a large, four-wheel drive, painted camouflage, with two men in hunter’s orange standing near it. The other was a burned-out husk, little wisps of smoke still curling around it. Angela sat as far forward as her seatbelt would allow and peered through the windshield. “What the hell happened?”
“I’m not sure…”
Angela made a phone call. “Evan, I might need an Evidence Response Team in Redstick.”
“Why?” he asked.
“I think we’ve found Ambrose’s truck, and we’ve got a body.”
“I can’t authorize an ERT, Angela. The U.S. Attorney is waiting on the results of your interview. If he’s dead, it’s a local matter. Case closed for us. Sorry.”
“You serious?”
“I’m afraid so. I’ve been on the phone with them all morning.”
There was no way she was going to let that stand. If Ambrose was dead, she wanted to know why. “I’ll be in touch,” she said, hanging up and turning her phone off before Evan had a chance to order her back.
Before the wheels stopped rolling, Angela hopped out and rushed up to the burned-out vehicle. She took note the cab was empty and pulled a napkin from her pocket to wipe the char from the license plate. She slowly stood up. “It’s his truck.” She turned to the hunters. “Where’s the body?”
The older of the two—she guessed the father of the younger one—looked at Jim as if he needed permission to speak.
“She’s with the FBI, Hobe.”
“Oh,” Hobe grunted, scratching his salt and pepper beard. “About a hundred yards in, ma’am. Just follow that small trail next to the fence.”