False Gods

by W. Glenn Duncan Jr.

  Both Kimberlys on the ground. Bodies smoking.

  Next in line explodes in flame. Grab her. Push her away.

  Reach for the fourth.

  Move along the unending line of Kimberlys.

  Each one bursts into flame as I reach them.

  Flashpoint moves away from me.

  Faster.

  It still moves away.

  Stop.

  The row of Kimberlys ignite, one by one, into the darkness. A macabre Vegas water fountain.

  Fire alarm blares.

  Through burning and charring faces, Kimberlys smile at me.

  “Help me.”

  I can’t help you all.

  I can’t help you.

  I can’t.

  With a sucking breath I erupted from the darkness. In my chair, the western afternoon sky ablaze outside the window.

  Why can I still hear the damn fire alarm?

  I blinked, trying to orient myself for the second time that day, and reached out to answer the phone.

  Dropped the receiver.

  Blinked twice and hauled it up by the cord.

  “Helmmgh.”

  “Oh swoon, my great ugly one. You know exactly what to say to a girl.”

  “…”

  “I missed you last night,” she whispered.

  That was music to my ears. And the best thing I’d heard in the last week.

  Maybe ever.

  “Hey, Hil.” I righted my voice. “Surfacing after a nap.” Ran my tongue around my teeth and yearned for a toothbrush.

  “Did you find anything in Lincoln?”

  Only that this guy has enough firepower to start a private war.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary.” There was no point getting her more worried than I already was. “Maybe that’s the problem. Everything looks ordinary on the surface, but a girl is still missing.”

  “You want me to come over tonight?”

  “I’d love you to, hon, but I’m still zonked. I’d be terrible company, unless falling asleep is the new sexy.”

  “Not the new nor the old. Take it from me, falling asleep while in flagrante delicto will never be sexy. Stick with that, and the rest is easy.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I’ve been looking at so many catalogs and manifests that I’m seeing words on the inside of my eyelids. I’ll get an early night, too. Sleep tight.” Sigh. “Even if it will be without me.”

  “You too.”

  “I love you, Rafferty.”

  “You too.”

  I cradled the receiver and sat staring at the wall as the last light of the day leaked away.

  Tried to think about how to get to Kimberly. Didn’t come up with anything new.

  I wanted to sleep.

  I didn’t want to dream again.

  Fuck’s sake, Rafferty. Grow a pair. What kind of a man is scared of his dreams? Tired? Stop your whining and go to bed.

  Yeah.

  I was hungry but couldn’t be bothered making anything. I padded down the hall, fell face down on the bed and told myself to sleep.

  Nothing to worry about; I always listened to myself.

  No nonsense, that’s me.

  I’m not sure why I saw two a.m. go by.

  Chapter 24

  First order of the day: talk to Lucy.

  Check that, first order of the day was to wrap my lips around a cup of coffee and a pipe, then I called Lucy.

  “Hey, Mr Rafferty.” The flick of a lighter. “Lucky you caught me. I was about to leave for the VA.”

  “Lucy, I need to know how things changed when the church moved to Washington.”

  Inhale. Exhale.

  “I told you the other day about how Dariell was acting. I’m not sure what else I can say.”

  “Lucy.” I hesitated. Hilda’s words came back to me.

  You need to be careful with her.

  Careful be damned. If I was going to find Kimberly before it was too late, I needed to know exactly what Cowboy and I had seen in the dark and the rain outside Lincoln.

  “Lucy. I found the compound. I saw people. I saw a group of girls. But I still don’t know what I saw. What’s going on out there?”

  Inhale. Exhale.

  “Lucy, I know this is hard, but—”

  “Mr Rafferty, you don’t have the faintest idea how hard this is.” Inhale. Exhale. “I haven’t slept a minute since we talked. For the last year and a half …” Long breath out. The rustle of a cigarette packet, lighter flick and a deep inhale. “For the last year and a half I’ve done everything I can to forget what happened out there. I was getting better. I was.”

  “Lucy—”

  “And then I get this misguided notion that I can help you, and I’m spun back to a world I wish I’d never seen the inside of.”

  “Kimberly needs you, Lucy. She—”

  “No, Mr Rafferty. She needs you. Not me. I can’t help anymore.”

  “Lucy—“

  “I’m sorry. I really am. No-one can feel for those girls more than I do, but I can’t do this. I’ve gotta go. Bye, Mr Rafferty.”

  Fuck.

  I called Kathy-Lee and brought her up to speed. There wasn’t much to say, but I described the on-the-outskirts-of-Lincoln township.

  No, I had not seen Kimberly in person.

  No, I had not seen anyone at all.

  And, no, there didn’t seem to be anything dangerous.

  I had said I would call more often. I hadn’t said anything about telling the truth.

  Kathy-Lee sounded tired. Resigned. Maybe even to the point where she might not have the energy to twist her wedding ring. I wanted to give her good news; I just had none to give.

  I promised to call again soon, with more definite and positive news.

  Two shitty phone calls left me feeling unsettled.

  But I let the feeling pass; I had other things to do.

  I wanted to get eyes on this guy and his gaggle during daylight hours.

  I drank more coffee while I packed a nylon sports bag with the essentials. My battered Minolta with the three hundred mill zoom lens and a couple rolls of fast film. A pair of binoculars, smaller than the camera and more powerful. The Ithaca 12-gauge, wrapped in an old sheet, went in along with a box of birdshot.

  Rafferty’s Rule Thirty-Two: It’s better to have it and not use it, than need it and not have it.

  I threw in the .38 too, but left the ankle holster behind. Despite Rule Thirty-Two, it’s still possible to overdo things.

  Besides, the .45 was already in the car. I finished the bag off with a pair of battered hiking boots, a dry baseball cap and an old outdoorsman coat. I wanted to be in and out before nightfall, but you never know.

  I humped everything out to the Mustang and returned to grab a cooler with water and a couple of sandwiches. I unzipped and went through the bag again, satisfied that I’d packed everything I’d need.

  I thought about calling Cowboy, decided against it. I knew where the place was now, and I was planning on sneaking a look, not launching World War III today. Besides, if I got caught, I’m just a regular guy taking a walk in the desert.

  No law against that right? What could go wrong?

  Chapter 25

  My shoulders and neck were aching by the time I reached Mineral Wells and I could’ve almost killed for a cup of coffee, but a pipe and a bottle of water carried me on.

  Driving through Breckenridge, the signs outside Tom’s Tas-Tee-Diner insisted I should stop, but I didn’t think Doris needed to see me again. She might ask awkward questions, like when she would be contacted for a costume fitting, or why a studio exec drives such a crappy car, that type of thing.

  So I blasted straight through Breckenridge and headed on towards Lincoln.

  The Mustang hadn’t missed a beat all morning. Although I hated paying Peter, I couldn’t argue with his work.

  I saw the sign for the turn I wanted too late. I threw out the anchors and heaved the car onto the shoulder. A sweeping u-turn used up
the shoulder on the other side of the road, and the dust behind me spun up into a mini-tornado. I took the left off the interstate and slowed.

  About a half mile before the junction with Private Road 5150, two white Chevy Suburbans blasted past me, nose to tail, headed toward the interstate. I got a brief glimpse of two serious-looking, aviator sunglass-wearing men in the lead car, but the tinted windows and dust cloud blocked out everything else.

  I eased to a stop to let the dust clear.

  Dariell? It looked like a protective convoy. Follow, or keep going?

  As the dust settled, I decided to keep going. I was after Kimberly, not Dariell, so if it was him headed the other way I didn’t care where he was going. Also, maybe security would be down a notch or two if he wasn’t on site.

  I pulled up about a hundred yards past the intersection that marked the start of Private Road 5150. The driveway to the compound was less than a mile up the road from here.

  I wasn’t planning on heading that way.

  Locked my wallet in the glove compartment, changed my sneakers for the boots, slipped the .45 into my jacket, and threw a fresh bottle of water into the sports bag. I jammed the cap on my head, slung the bag over my shoulder, then stepped across the road and into the scrub.

  I weaved between the scrabbly, knee high bushes for about an hour, trying to stay perpendicular to the road as much as possible, when a distant whump-whump pushed over the eastern horizon.

  There were no tall trees in sight, and a larger clump of scrub a little way ahead looked like my best, and only, chance for cover.

  I ran toward the sound, my shadow leading the way, while a hard block in the bag thumped the hell out of my right kidney. Gun or ammo I couldn’t tell. I suppose it didn’t matter.

  The whump-whump sound was loud and closer now as I reached the scrub clump and knelt down. The branches were too dense for me to burrow inside, so I leaned into it as hard as I could, ducked my head, and shoved the bright blue sports bag underneath my legs.

  I had the Colt out, too.

  The noise reached a peak and the helicopter blew right over me about sixty feet off the deck. The downwash blasted everything and I had to grab my cap to stop it being blown away. The chopper was a small two seater, with a big glass bubble at the front and a trestle-work of steel behind to hold the tail rotor. If you’ve ever seen an episode of M*A*S*H, you’ll know the type.

  I couldn’t make out any markings, which made it most likely a private job, used by a rancher to get to the far flung reaches of his spread. But, I wasn’t taking any chances, so I stayed pinned against the scrub.

  It continued westward for a ways, before carving a graceful arc to the south, dropping below the horizon. I could hear it whumping around but it didn’t sound like it was coming back and when I stood up a couple minutes later, I couldn’t see the mechanical mosquito anywhere.

  It felt like I must be getting close to the village but, I knew I wouldn’t see it until it was right underneath me, so I slowed down as much as possible while still moving forward. I did not need to stumble and announce myself by rolling down the embankment into the drainage ditch.

  I kept an eye out for the fallen tree that Cowboy and I had hidden behind, but couldn’t see anything in the distance that looked right. Another thirty minutes of slow walking and I was getting concerned that I wouldn’t be able to find it, when I realized there was a clear area to my left. I walked a few steps in that direction and stopped. I could see scrub for the next couple of hundred yards, and the dots of bushes a mile beyond. Nothing in between.

  It could be an area where there’s no scrub.

  Uh huh.

  I crouch-walked now, holding the sports bag by the handles, in a weird raised-arm grip, to keep it from dragging in the dirt. I stopped and, taking a chance, stood up to take the pressure of my back. The far edge of the compound’s bowl curved in the distance. Still no indication of the near edge, but it had to be close. I got down on my hands and knees, looped the bag straps over my shoulder, and crawled forward.

  I wasn’t game to stand up again. Not this close.

  Stopped a few minutes later and lay in the dirt. Brushed my hands on my jacket and grabbed the bottle of water from the bag. I took a swig and recapped the bottle ready to throw it back in, when I heard the scuff of gravel behind me.

  I turned around to look back past my feet.

  I didn’t get that far.

  Down on one knee within touching distance of my left side was a figure in camouflage, a bandana wrapped around his face.

  The first shock was that he was there at all.

  The second was his outfit.

  I barely had time to register the third thing wrong with the picture, the butt end of a black weapon, before I registered the closing speed between it and my face.

  The itch in my brain crescendoed and fireworks sparkled behind my eyes.

  I blinked, trying to get my senses back in order. All this succeeding in doing was to give me a stop-motion movie of the camouflaged man raising his gun again and slamming it back on my face. That time I felt my nose explode.

  As the black seeped in from the edges of my consciousness, it felt like I was being dragged by my feet.

  Maybe it was another dream.

  Chapter 26

  I wasn’t sure whether it was the ache in my shoulders or the throbbing in my face that sliced through the darkness first.

  Probably a tie.

  I kept my eyes closed; I wasn’t ready to go visual just yet, and started to run through an internal inventory.

  Seated on a hard chair with hands down and behind me.

  So far, so good.

  My shoulders and neck felt like granite, so I tried rolling my arms upright to stretch them out. A metallic clank signaled the full range of movement for my wrists.

  Handcuffs. Okay. I tensed and relaxed my fingers, one by one. Good. Nothing broken. Not that I expected them to remain that way after I’d had a close and personal conversation with the prick who’d hit me.

  I rolled my head around and mentally focused downward. The feet, knees and legs felt mobile enough, but my right ankle, the one where that prick Turk had shot me a few years ago, roared fire.

  The chest and stomach felt sticky and raw, like an open wound. A burn, not a cut or gunshot. I decided I could live with that.

  My thoughts seemed okay—would I be able to tell if they weren’t?—but my head buzzed like a bottle full of houseflies.

  It felt like my face took most of the damage. I could feel a coating on my lips and chin, and I couldn’t breathe through my nose. Not surprising; it felt like it had been pounded down like gold foil over the right side of my face. It didn’t do wonders for my ability to pick up on any nearby smells, either.

  I ran my tongue around the cesspool of my mouth. Somewhere, a dentist was looking at the final Mercedes payment with the amount of work needed before I’d eat steak again.

  At least Hilda would be happy that I stopped the gun with a part of my body I could afford to sacrifice.

  Enough of the personal inventory. Time to expand this research project.

  Set myself to listening.

  Inside a smallish space. The deadened and hollow sound told me that much. Couldn’t tell whether the light beyond my eyelids was daylight or man-made.

  Where?

  A better question. I didn’t know how long I’d been out. I could be yards, or miles, away from where Rambo had impact-tested my skull. I concentrated and listened harder.

  A quiet howl. Wind?

  Maybe.

  I’d gone about as far as I could without eyesight by now. At the same time, part of me didn’t want to know what was out there. But a faint heart never filled a flush.

  I cracked my right eye open.

  Bright light stabbed me in the eye and I let my lid drop shut again.

  Blessed darkness.

  I sucked in a couple of breaths and levered my eyelid upwards, against its better judgement. White fog.

/>   I huffed breaths to keep my eye open and the surroundings swam into focus. A smooth, gray door materialized in the centre of a gray wall, about eight feet in front of me.

  Something wrong with the door.

  I registered the thought, but I was fully occupied keeping my eye open so I couldn’t work out what it was.

  I sat and breathed and cajoled my eyelid to relax further.

  It took me ten minutes—or maybe it was six hours—to open my right eye fully and for it to agree to stay that way. My head throbbed. I willed my left eye to match its counterpart but couldn’t lever it past half way.

  The room I was in was ten foot square, I guessed. I could only guess, I couldn’t turn my head far enough to see the wall behind me, but it didn’t sound much bigger than that. Gray walls, no windows, the one door. A bare lightbulb, unbelievably bright for such a small room, burned overhead on a low ceiling. If I’d been standing on flat feet I could have touched it.

  My neck screamed a protest but in the end relented enough to let me look down.

  My t-shirt was dirty and shredded, with blood streaks worthy of a Jackson Pollock painting. I guessed there’d be a big drag mark in the dirt where I’d been laying.

  The chair underneath me was metal and appeared to be fixed to the floor. I tried rocking it and got nowhere. I spread my knees and found that my feet were also shackled in irons, with the chain running through a heavy-duty ring bolt on the floor.

  Seeing that ring bolt made me think of the other thing that should have been in the room.

  I slowly racked my head on my grumbling neck.

  The door had no handle.

  And that concluded proceedings. I was alive and functional, though a bit foggy. I was bound hand and feet to a chair, in a locked room, god-only-knew-where.

  I had two options.

  Let myself pass out again, or use what I had: my dusty brain and not much else, to come up with a plan.

  This was the point where Magnum would work out who he was dealing with from the precise shade of gray wall paint, and MacGyver would macrame the handcuff chain into a self-breaking knot, leaving enough latent heat in the broken links to cut his way through the door to freedom.