In the game of chess, no player was more important than a queen. It was the piece that could go anywhere, do anything, a symbol as strong as existed.
The sort of thing that Uncle Jep carried everywhere with him, a reminder of his fallen wife, the person he always said was his queen, the most powerful in his life.
There was only one place in the world he didn’t carry it, that being the sole place someone might have been able to find him.
The fact that it was sitting on his dresser when I arrived meant he had been headed there and had never come back.
Gripping the steering wheel tight in both hands, I squeezed until veins bulged in my arms. Gritting my teeth, I held my breath, my entire body clenching until light began to pop before my eyes.
To anybody else in the world, the sign wouldn’t appear like much, a random knickknack sitting in someone’s bedroom.
For me, knowing how particular he was about every item in his home, how he felt about that one in particular, it was a beacon, a spotlight pointing the way ahead.
And I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to follow it.
Where exactly it led, I didn’t have a clear idea yet, but I knew what I might need when I got there, where I could I find that much in the meantime.
Leaning hard on the gas, the enormous engine of the Charger bucked beneath me, hurtling forward. Slinging gravel and dust like some sort of modern-day Duke of Hazzard, I took corners fast, straightaways even faster, pushing forward.
Every second of it I let the anger inside build, smacking at the wheel, the dashboard, the middle console.
Anything that could be used as a target.
This was my fault. There was no other way of looking at it.
The whole damn thing was my fault.
Rounding the last corner, I turned onto a second dirt path, the lane even less noticeable than the one leading back to Uncle Jep’s. Tall grass and leaves slapped at the underbelly of the car as I eased back the speed, passing through the thick tree cover, mottled spots of light creeping up and over the hood of the car.
Winding down the path, it was obvious that nobody had been by in years.
Which was good.
It meant that what I needed would still be there, untouched.
More than a quarter mile after leaving the road, I eased the car to a stop. Stepping out from it, I glanced up to the poplar tree just past the front bumper, the single X carved into the base of it, time having healed the wound enough so that it was barely noticeable.
Much like the queen in his bedroom, a sign only to those that knew to look for it.
Which from this point forward was exactly one person.
The thought intensified the scowl on my face as I banked a hard left. Stretching my stride out to a measuring pace, I counted off twenty-seven steps before stopping and making an abrupt right.
Sixteen steps later, I turned my foot on its side, dragging it across the thick bed of pine needles covering the ground.
Years of going unused had made the layer thicker than I remembered, forcing me to kick at the ground three times before my foot struck metal. Once it did, I abandoned the movement and dropped to my knees, using my hands to push debris to the side.
Half a minute later, dirt and dried leaves clung to the sweat lining my arms, my breath coming in ragged bursts as I stared down at the metal manhole cover, a single unnatural spot deep in the woods.
Thinking nothing of it or the symbolism it might possess, I ran my hands around the top lip, scanning until I found the single indent in the rim, the spot just large enough to dip a finger into. Hooking my middle digit under it, I leaned back, the ligaments in my hand straining as the years of exposure to the elements kept the seal tight.
Rising to my feet, I positioned my body for a deadlift, the tendons in my neck bulging as inch by inch the metal wrenched itself free, an unholy sound following it with every tiny movement.
Once it was up far enough, I hooked both hands beneath the lip, jerking back, sending the object hurtling end over end into the dust.
Rising to full height, I stood panting, staring down into the darkened hole for a moment, hoping it still contained what I needed it to. Pulling my head upright, I studied the woods around me, searching for any sound, any sign that I had been followed, that it might be a trap.
For more than a minute I stood, nothing out of sorts coming back to me.
It was time.
Extending one toe toward the hole, seeing nothing but darkness within, I gingerly lowered my boot down. Aiming for the far side, my off knee bent at an angle, lowering me little by little into the space, before I struck the hard metal of a rung.
A twinge of exhilaration passing through me, I braced myself against the rung, lowering myself one step at a time. Within seconds, my entire bottom half was swallowed by the darkness, the sun soon disappearing overhead as I descended.
Twenty-seven, sixteen, eighteen. That was always the combination for the place, a number Uncle Jep drilled into me more times than I could remember.
Twenty-seven paces from the poplar.
Sixteen paces to the right.
Eighteen steps down into the darkness.
Keeping count in my head, I went as fast as my hands and feet would allow, fighting the urge to simply jump down. Around me, the temperature dropped precipitously, refreshingly cool against my skin as I went further into the earth.
On the eighteenth rung, I paused just slightly, extending a toe down before feeling the blessed gravel floor beneath me. Stepping down, I kept the rungs directly before me, extending both hands to the concrete pillar they were screwed into.
My left hand was the first to find the light switch, the aging device flipping upward without opposition, a filmy yellow glow soon following, bright enough it caused me to wince, turning away.
Rotating away from it, I waited an instant for my eyes to settle before looking up, the very thing I’d been looking for stretched out wide in either direction.
Enough supplies – from food to clothing to weapons – to last someone through the coming apocalypse.
A parting gift from Uncle Jep if there ever was one.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The words of Sheriff Charbonneau were still rattling through Talula Davis’s head as she stepped through the back door of her house. Moving on legs that were so stiff they felt like stilts beneath her, Davis went slow, her entire body in a state of suspended numbness as she tossed her keys across the counter, barely noticing as they slid more than three feet before tumbling to the floor, landing in a clatter.
The role of the Sheriff’s Department in murder investigations was sometimes a touchy one, the sort of thing that obviously occurred, but to her knowledge had never once happened in Monroe County.
Having never thought much on the matter, Davis would have assumed that when it did, one of two things happened. Either the Sheriff handled it personally, or they called in a detective team from one of the neighboring cities.
Unsure if Charbonneau even attempted the latter, she was certain he had never considered the former, tossing it her direction within minutes of arriving.
If it could even be argued that that was what had happened, her boss seeming to have a much different memory of things than she did.
Stepping up to the fridge, she jerked the door open, letting the cool air rush over her body. Raising her face to the ceiling, she tugged her uniform shirt out of the waistband of her pants, not bothering to unbutton it before pulling the canvas material up over her head.
In the wake of the sweaty shirt, the air was mercifully cool, Davis staying in place as she reached out, fumbling for a bottle of water.
With eyes closed, she twisted the top off, letting a third of the bottle slide to the back her throat, feeling it pass down into her chest.
One of the few moments of relief she’d had all day.
It was short-lived, the buzz of her phone pulling her back to the fore.
Still standing with her face an
gled up, a low groan rolled from Davis, the feeling of dread she’d first had when Tanner called a day earlier having grown exponentially.
Whether or not the case getting turfed to her was some sort of rookie punishment or something much more sadistic, she didn’t have a clue.
What she did know was that Charbonneau always had reasons for his actions, this one likely being that he needed a scapegoat should things go sideways.
Heaven forbid anything ever be his fault.
“Davis,” she responded, leaving the fridge door open, her eyes still closed as she stood, the cool air abating slightly.
“Hi, this is Joe Bridger returning, well, a whole ton of phone calls to this number.”
Snapping her eyes open, Davis reached out and flung the door shut, hearing bottles of condiments rattling around inside. Without even looking, she knew what they were, the shelves on the door and the water she was drinking comprising eighty percent of the food she had in the house at any given moment.
“Yes,” she said, turning and resting her bottom against the counter, “thanks for getting back to me. My name is Deputy Talula Davis with the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department.”
In her assorted attempts earlier to make contact, she had opted not to leave a message, wanting to deliver the news personally, if for no other reason than to gauge any response that might accompany it.
Call her crazy, but those sorts of things mattered.
In response to her identifying herself, Bridger let out a long sigh, his voice taking on a resigned tone. “Was it those damn kids again?”
Her mouth already open to respond, Davis paused, her eyes narrowing slightly.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh,” Bridger replied, another sigh plainly audible, “You know how it is when you have a property that sits empty a fair bit of the time. Word gets around with the local kids, they start using it as a hangout.”
“Huh,” Davis said, having not given a great deal of thought to the arrangement, “so you’ve had trouble there before?”
“I wouldn’t say trouble,” Bridger replied. “It’s been a couple of years now, but for a while there, we had a group that liked to think of the place as their own personal playground.”
The timeframe fit with why Davis had never heard anything, could even coincide with why Tanner had decided to kick it her way the day before. He recognized the address and assumed it was her turn to deal with it for a while.
Though that would be giving the man more benefit of the doubt than he probably deserved.
“I see,” Davis said. “And what sorts of things would go on there?”
“The usual,” Bridger replied. “Drinking, fornicating, the occasional broken window or appliance. Nothing too bad, more of a nuisance than anything, having people that paid good money to rent your place call and say a party was going on there.”
Nodding, Davis fought to process what she was hearing.
None of it sounded like anything beyond some kids taking advantage of an opportunity to be a little rebellious. Certainly nowhere near the level of what happened here.
“So, how bad was it?” Bridger asked.
Pulling herself back to the conversation, seizing on his question, on the commentary he had given her prior, Davis paused, sorting out the best place to begin.
“Mr. Bridger, you say you’re not from around here, but I see this is a local area code.”
“Yeah,” he replied, seeming a bit puzzled by the statement. “We’re from there, were living there when I got the phone years and years ago. A while back my wife took ill, so we relocated down to Atlanta.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you,” Bridger replied. “It passed, God willing, but we decided to stick around here, be closer to services should we need them again. Decided to make the home into a rental.”
Nodding in silence, Davis used her lower back to lever herself up from the counter. With the phone pressed to her ear, she walked across her kitchen to the sliding glass door, staring out at the patch of dead grass that was her backyard.
“Mr. Bridger, does the name Jessup Lynch mean anything to you?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Regardless of the amount of adrenaline that had been keeping my body afloat for a solid day, if I didn’t take care of myself there was going to be a point when I simply flatlined. When that would be or what the circumstances might look like, I couldn’t be certain, knowing only that it would be ugly.
Given the trip I’d made, the heat I was enduring, I needed to replenish. I needed to sleep.
And I needed information.
Things were still coming at me too fast, my mind fighting to process it all. I needed to press pause on the world for a moment, to get things in order, make sure I wasn’t running around half-cocked, walking into an ambush or setting the stage for something even worse later on.
As Uncle Jep always used to tell me, a plan was useless, but planning was essential. A fan of the old warhorses, I think he might have mentioned Eisenhower having said it, though if that’s accurate I can’t quite be certain.
I’ve had to endure a lot of generals sprouting crap like that over the years.
The name of the motel was the Lakeside Inn and Suites, though on the walk up to my room I damned sure didn’t notice anything resembling a suite. Two stories tall, it was a long structure with doors on one side, windows facing toward the water on the opposite.
Painted mud brown, it was meant to blend into the forest surroundings, a scheme that would have worked infinitely better had they not felled every tree on the lot in the process.
That’s Tennessee for you.
Armed with my two bags, I brought along just a couple of the souvenirs I had picked up in the bunker. The rest I managed to stow in the rear well where the spare tire was supposed to be, the wheel now the newest addition to the hole carved out in the woods.
A bitch to get down there for sure, but worth it in the end.
Not knowing exactly what the days ahead might hold, I was fairly certain I would be ready for it.
Come what may.
The only additional things to come with me were a sack of groceries from a Wal-Mart Supercenter out on the highway - bottled water and electrolyte powders and various prepackaged foods – and a new laptop I bought from the same place.
Cheap as hell, the box basically confessed that it did little more than write emails and send them, but fortunately for me, that was about on par with what I needed.
Simple internet searches, and lots of them.
Requesting the top corner room, I climbed the stairs with my various items in tow, barricading myself in the room just before seven. Starting with the laptop, I tore open the packaging and set it to charging before stripping away the soggy rags I wore.
Putting the air conditioner on the lowest setting it had, I let the persistent rattle of the machine provide a soundtrack as I padded to the bathroom and climbed in the shower, scrubbing away the combination of airplane funk, sweat, and dirt. For more than ten minutes I watched as various shades of color swirled down the drain at my feet, allowing the water to lower my body temperature by several degrees before stepping out.
With each passing moment, I could feel my grasp on consciousness starting to flag, my energy stores dipping, the effects of adrenaline seeping from my system.
Using a threadbare towel, I wiped myself dry and remained in the nude, returning to the bed and bringing the laptop to life. After moving through a series of unnecessary steps to get the device up and operational, I signed into the motel’s wireless internet, working my way through the sack of supplies as I went.
Beginning with the electrolytes, I buffeted them with protein bars and peanuts, letting my body feast on the needed salt and saturated fat.
If my time in the service had taught me anything, it was that it was better to give your body more than it required now, never knowing what it might call for in the future.
A small pile of wrapper
s formed on the nightstand as I worked, the sunlight fading, sparkling across the top of the lake outside my window, a thousand shimmering crystals throwing an orange glow on my exposed skin.
Giving it no more mind than to pinch my eyes up tight to block it out, I kept my focus on the computer, very much aware of the truncated timetable I had before my energy petered out.
Of the things that I had left behind in Portland, one of the only ones that I could say I would actually miss was my computer. A desktop model with enough processing power to run a small aircraft, it had been tailored well beyond my needs, operating my life in a virtual environment that was both quick and painless, the device now stowed in the trunk of my car parked at Portland International, should any marshals come looking in my apartment.
The new one could best be described as slow and painful.
Beginning with basic Google searches, it took me three times longer than necessary to determine that, as yet, no mention of Jessup Lynch disappearing, much less being dead, had turned up anywhere in Tennessee, Carolina, or even Georgia.
Aside from that, only a single unidentified man in the region had been found recently, a twenty-something African American in Charlotte that police were suspecting was a result of gang activity.
Definitely not what I was looking for.
Getting through the various searches, I leaned back, letting out a long exhalation, my bare skin pressed against the headboard behind me.
Every part of me wanted to believe that the lack of information could mean that he was okay. That he had just forgotten about our call, taken a long hunting or fishing trip, and would be back soon.
The realistic part of me knew that was nothing but false hope. In six years, he hadn’t missed a single call. There was no way he wouldn’t figure out a way to route it to wherever he was.
Hell, the number we used was from an area code in Maine, set up by bouncing it through a half-dozen countries so even the marshals listening in wouldn’t know who he was or where he was located.
The Subway ; The Debt ; Catastrophic Page 10