Apocalypse Journeys (Book 2): Finding AJ

by Melrose, Russ

  Jules heard a short, tight boom and then the sharp sound of asphalt splintering a few feet away. A piece of asphalt stung her calf like a bee, another pinged off the fender of the Cherokee. Jules froze in place for a second, then sprinted for the open car door.

  She put the jeep in reverse and floored it. The tires spun in place before gaining traction. The engine whined higher as the jeep climbed steadily up the ramp. There were no more gunshots.

  "What happened?" Addy asked, her voice trembling. "What was that?"

  "It was a gun shot," Jules told her.

  "Someone's shooting at us?"

  "Yes. It was a warning shot, Addy. If they'd wanted to kill me, they could have. They weren't looking to kill anyone. But it doesn't look like they want anyone coming into Gideon."

  "Then we should leave, right?"

  Jules came off the exit ramp and turned around and headed back north.

  "I can't leave, Addy. I'm sorry. But we'll make them think we're leaving." Jules paused a few moments before continuing. "Do you remember when we were leaving Kingman, Addy? I told you this could be dangerous. But we're going to be fine. We'll go in the back way. They won't notice."

  Jules was lying and she suspected Addy knew she was lying. The shot had come from the hill next to the freeway. And from that vantage point, with a scope or binoculars, the shooter would easily be able to see the jeep go off the freeway for at least a few miles down I-15.

  Addy went silent. She sat stiffly, hands rigid on her thighs, her forehead pinched in worry.

  Jules softened her voice and spoke as gently as she could. "Addy, look. There isn't anywhere we can go that's going to be completely safe. No matter where we go, there's going to be some kind of danger."

  "But they shot at you," she insisted.

  "Yes. They wanted to scare us."

  "It worked."

  Jules didn't say anything.

  "You do know you're bleeding, right?" Addy asked. She was staring at Jules' calf.

  "It's nothing," Jules told her. "It's only a scratch." Jules felt a trickle of blood inch toward her heel.

  She knew there wouldn't be any pacifying Addy. Instead, she focused on finding the tire tracks coming onto the freeway. She estimated it would be at least a mile back from the Gideon freeway ramps.

  Jules wondered if the shooter had a communication device. If they did, people in the community would be forewarned they were coming.

  When Jules found the tracks, she followed them off the freeway. The field was bumpy but negotiable. The tracks led straight ahead toward a large building in the distance, but Gideon was off to the right. Jules veered right and headed for Gideon. The Cherokee handled the uneven ground easily and in fifteen minutes they were on the outskirts of town.

  The moment they hit a street, Jules fed Albrecht's address to the GPS navigator. The streets were empty except for a few cars parked on the street or in driveways. They didn't see any people or any grays. Gideon was like a ghost town. Jules followed the directions and traveled two blocks south before turning left. Three blocks later Jules turned the Cherokee right and came to an abrupt stop.

  Four men stood in a yard a few houses down on the left. There was a pickup truck in the driveway with two large coolers in its bed. A sheriff's car was parked in the front along with another car.

  Three of the men leveled guns in the direction of the jeep. The fourth stood and watched. Jules put the jeep in park and placed her hands on the top of the steering wheel. She told Addy to put her hands on the dash.

  The three men with weapons drawn approached the jeep. Two came down the street to the front of the jeep, their weapons, a shotgun and a Glock, aimed at Jules and Addy. The two men were Polynesian twins and they were huge. The third man walked carefully through the yards and approached the driver side door. He stopped a dozen feet from the jeep. He was dressed in a short-sleeve deputy sheriff's shirt, jeans, and chestnut-colored cowboy boots, and he wore a fanny pack. He stood crouched in a firing stance and held a revolver in his left hand aimed at Jules.

  "I knew we shouldn't have come here," Addy complained.

  "We're going to be fine, Addy. Just keep your hands on the dash. Let me do all the talking."

  The man in the uniform motioned for Jules to lower her window. Jules complied and placed her hands back on the steering wheel.

  "I'm Dallin Petersen, d-d-deputy sheriff," he stuttered.

  The man spoke in serious tones and Jules thought he might be overcompensating for the stutter. The deputy was willowy and long-limbed, with short dark hair and a lengthy face.

  "Who are you?" he asked.

  "My name is Jules Vandevelde," Jules replied.

  "Stay right there, d-d-don't move," he said.

  He lowered his gun and pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt. He turned and began to speak excitedly into it.

  Several moments later, the front door to the house where the men had been standing opened and two men came out. They wore surgical masks. One of them had lowered his mask down to his neck and held a walkie-talkie. He ran a hand through his curly sandy-colored hair and walked casually to where the deputy stood.

  He angled his head to get a better look at Jules and Addy. "I think we can put the guns away, boys," he said.

  The men all lowered their guns but kept them handy. Jules turned her head to look at him. The corner of his mouth lifted into a humorous, wry grin. "You're not going to be causing us any trouble, are you, ma'am?"

  "No, I'm not," Jules replied.

  "She s-says her name is Jules," the deputy told him.

  "Jules," the man repeated slowly, rolling her name over his tongue as if he were testing it out. "You have any weapons in your vehicle, Jules?"

  "Yes. Two Glocks and a shotgun. One Glock's holstered, the other's in one of the boxes," she told him.

  "You right-handed, Jules?"

  "Yes," she told him.

  "Okay. How about you very slowly grab the butt of the holstered Glock with the thumb and forefinger of your left hand and drop it down onto the street."

  His fingers tapped lightly on the butt of the Glock sheathed in its holster. He was relaxed and cool. Jules followed his instructions and dropped the gun onto the asphalt.

  "Good. Same for the shotgun. Grab it by the barrel and drop it slowly onto the street."

  Jules complied again.

  He motioned for the deputy to collect the guns. The deputy retrieved the guns, and the man gave them a cursory glance and smiled. "Well, well. A Glock 23 and a Remington 870. I can't imagine that's a coincidence. I'm pretty sure these are FBI-issued weapons. They are, aren't they, Jules?"

  There was no point in denying it. Jules nodded affirmatively.

  The deputy polished one of his cowboy boots against the back leg of his jeans, then the other one.

  "Okay. Jules, my name is Heath Conway," the man said. "I'm the sheriff here in Gideon." He said it without having any real attachment to its significance. He paused thoughtfully and squinted. "I can't help but wonder what the hell the two of you are up to. Pretty obvious you're a Fed, Jules, and it's pretty obvious your friend there isn't. Now, you ignored the warning shot up by the freeway entrance and managed to sneak in the back door to Gideon. And I'll have to admit, that was pretty gutsy."

  Jules didn't respond. She eyed the sheriff, trying to get a read on him. Conway came off as intelligent and competent, sure of himself to the point of arrogance. His voice was a smooth drawl. Jules made a mental note of it. He was casually dressed in a sky-blue denim shirt, the sleeves symmetrically rolled up past his elbows, and Levi jeans. He had a taut slender build, his upper body fitting into the jeans like a lean tree trunk. His face looked sculpted—sharp cheek bones, deep inset blue eyes, and a rugged well-defined jaw. His face was coppery, and he had the beginning of crow's feet outside the corner of his eyes.

  "What are you doing in Gideon, Jules?"

  Jules winced from the bright morning sun angling into the car. "I'm looking for someone," she said.


  "And who would that be?" he asked.

  Jules paused but knew she'd have to tell him. "George Albrecht," she said. "I'd like to speak to him if I could."

  "George Albrecht? Well, I'm afraid that's going to be a bit of a problem, Jules. You see, George Albrecht is dead."

  Jules' grip on the steering wheel tightened. She'd never considered Albrecht might be dead or infected. She looked straight out the windshield at nothing and avoided looking at Conway. "Dead?" she whispered faintly.

  "That's right. I know because I'm the one who shot him. I'm afraid George got himself infected. What did you want to see George about? And please don't bullshit me, Jules."

  There was no reason to hide anything now. "All right," Jules told him. "You were right. I am … was … with the FBI. George Albrecht was a suspect in a case I was working on. I wanted to find out if he was the unsub we were looking for."

  "Unsub?" the deputy repeated, bewildered.

  "Sorry, old habit," Jules said to the deputy. "Unknown subject."

  Jules could see Conway connecting dots. "There was another Fed came down here twice asking about George." Conway stared at the ground as if he were trying to access the memory. "Let me see now … yeah. Name was Beckerman. He was here around the time everything started to fall apart." Conway looked directly at Jules. "I'm going to tell you the same thing I told him, Jules. George Albrecht is no serial killer. You people got your wires crossed."

  Jules acted as if she hadn't heard a word he'd said. "If I could see his home, that would really help out." She was grasping at straws. "If you could let me have an hour inside his home, sheriff, that's all I'd need. Then we'd leave Gideon. Get out of your hair."

  "No. I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head. "I can't have you riding into town and searching people's homes. We have our own way of doing things around here. Everyone here has a function and does their part. That's the way it works. That's how we get along. If you want to go traipsing around George Albrecht's home, you're going to have to earn that privilege. You and your friend are going to have to help out. And by the way, who's your quiet friend in there?"

  The sheriff craned his head and looked past Jules to get a look at Addy. The deputy did the same.

  "This is Addy," Jules told him. "Found her in Arizona. Needed a ride." Jules left it at that and changed the subject. "What do you mean by 'help out'?"

  The sheriff scrutinized Addy a few moments longer as if he were trying to place where he might know her from.

  "Give me a minute and I'll make a couple calls."

  He sauntered over to an area between the nearest homes and spent a few minutes on the walkie-talkie.

  Jules turned to Addy. "We're going to be fine. They're organized here and they have law enforcement in place. That's a good thing."

  "That guy you were looking for is dead. Why do we have to stay?"

  "I have to make sure he's the one I'm looking for. Besides, Addy, where do you think we're going to go? I haven't seen a single gray here. Not one. This might be the safest place we could find."

  Jules was rationalizing to justify her need to stay and check out Albrecht. But she also knew she was right. Gideon was as safe a place as they were likely to find.

  Before Addy could respond, the sheriff walked back and stood next to his deputy. He clipped the walkie-talkie onto his belt and stood with his hands resting on his hips.

  "Can you handle yourself, Jules?" he asked.

  "I do all right," she told him.

  "Okay," he said. "Here's the deal. If you want to look over George's place, first you'll have to go into quarantine for thirty-six hours. We don't take chances with anyone. We have a house where you can stay. We'll provide food. Once you've cleared quarantine, you'll go out twice in the next week with Caleb's crew. That'll be your part. Your friend here will help out around camp. Caleb's crew goes to Cedar City twice a week for supply runs. After that, you can spend as much time in George's house as you like. The other alternative is you leave town right now. We'll escort you to the freeway and give you your guns back. If you try to sneak back in, we'll have to shoot you. No more warning shots. Have I made myself clear, Jules?" he asked languidly. "I don't want there to be any misunderstandings."

  Jules didn't have to think anything over. "All right. We'll stay and help," she told him.

  Addy exhaled audibly. "Great," was all she said.

  Jules watched the sheriff. He narrowed his eyes as if he were trying to read her and discern her intent.

  "You'll follow Dallin here down to the house. Dallin will remove the other Glock from the box. After that, you can have the box back. Take what you need inside with you. Leave the keys in the ignition. You'll get the car back after your thirty-six hours are up. There's no driving in town here without authorization. That goes through me. There's electricity in the house but lights out after it gets dark. We think we've got the streets cleared of them, but you never know. Food will be dropped off on the porch sometime in the next hour or so. Someone will knock on the door to let you know it's there, and you'll retrieve the food. That's the only time you'll be allowed out of the house. The house will be guarded. You won't see the guards, but they'll be there. If you try to leave, their instructions will be to shoot anyone who tries to leave. Until you pass quarantine, we're going to treat you as if you're infected. Any questions?"

  "No," Jules answered.

  "How about you, young lady?" he asked Addy.

  Addy's hands were still on the dash. "No," she said, sounding unsure.

  Five minutes later they were in front of an old stuccoed ranch style home closer to the center of town. After the deputy removed the Glock and inspected the other boxes, Jules and Addy carried the three boxes and the travel bag into the house. The deputy stood on the front lawn watching them, keeping his distance.

  As they carried the last of Jules' things into the house, the deputy nodded to them with an awkward half-smile.

  Jules put her box of clothes into one of the bedrooms and had Addy put the other boxes into the kitchen. The house was a spacious two-bedroom affair. The rooms appeared to have been recently painted in bright tropical colors: julep green for the living room, mandarin orange in the kitchen, and bright lemon in the bedrooms. Jules winced at the colors.

  The refrigerator hummed steadily and Jules found the humming distracting. The sheriff had mentioned the electricity, but Jules had become accustomed to the silence over the past week or so. She wondered about the source of the electricity.

  The first thing Addy did after they'd brought everything in was to check out the collection of DVDs and Blu-ray discs in the living room. Jules felt relieved. She wanted time to herself. Addy picked out three movies to watch and stuck the first one into the Blu-ray player.

  Before Jules settled into the bedroom, she tended to her calf. It was a thin cut about a half-inch long, not much more than a scratch. She cleaned it, put some Neosporin on it, and a Band-aid.

  Jules lay on the bed and pored through George Albrecht's file. She was looking for anything that might jump out at her. As she'd expected, she didn't find a thing. Everything was the same. Albrecht had been seen on the security tape in the bar talking to Natalie Jensen, the third victim, the night she was murdered. He was the last person seen talking to her. He left the bar three minutes after she'd left. When you coupled that with a dropped sexual assault charge twenty years ago, Albrecht appeared to be a legitimate suspect, but two witnesses gave him an alibi for the Natalie Jensen murder, and that put him in the clear, at least at the time.

  But Albrecht worked in each of the cities where the killings took place, and there were too many coincidences to ignore.

  In the wake of the news the sheriff had given her, Jules was having difficulty accepting the fact that Albrecht was dead. She didn't want to acknowledge his death because she knew it would make it that much harder to find his connection to the Calligrapher, if there was one.

  Jules yawned and grabbed the page of notes she'd written transcribin
g Beckerman's phone message. "Not the mackerel," he'd said urgently. "Not the mackerel." He had to have repeated the phrase five times as if he were afraid he'd forget it. It made no sense to Jules. She recalled the desperate mix of frustration and determination in Beckerman's voice as if he'd spoken the words mere moments ago. Beckerman stammered drunkenly through the call, the virus having eaten away at his brain. Jules was betting everything on two words Beckerman had uttered during the call—"Found her," he'd said. From those two words, Jules believed Beckerman had been able to identify who AJ was. It was the only thing that made sense to her. The call had come the same day as his second trip to Gideon.

  A wave of exhaustion swept over her and her eyelids grew heavy. The lack of sleep was catching up to her. She tried to keep her eyes open, but they began to flutter. She set the file next to her on the bed and let her eyelids close. She turned her head into the pillow. Images from the previous day danced before her mind's eye: Andrew Glickman with the look of surprise permanently etched into his pockmarked face, the four men in the Impala, the infected she'd killed earlier that morning, and, of course, Noah Beckerman.

  Chapter 5

  Beckerman

  He appeared in the opening of the cubicle wearing a well-worn dark indigo suit. His white shirt was bunched out above his belt and unbuttoned at the top. The knot of his striped navy tie was loosened. Even though it was only her second day in the Vegas field office, Jules knew exactly who he was.

  Noah Beckerman had a large, ruggedly crafted face and a deeply incised cleft chin. His hair was wavy brown and bushy with ultra-fine streaks of gray at the temples. He looked as if he'd slept in his clothes or pulled an all-nighter, but his light blue eyes were clear and alert. Noah Beckerman was the lead investigator of the Calligrapher task force. He held a folder tight against his ribs as if he were carrying a football.

  "You Vandevelde?" he asked.