“God, Griffin. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, only one of their shots got anywhere close.” Charon drew back and looked him in the eyes. “You say that as if someone was throwing rocks at you and missed.”
“I’ve been shot at before.”
“And you just came in from killing three men.”
“They were trying to kill me, Charon.”
“I know that. I guess I just can’t see how you can be so calm.” And there it was. The thing that had driven his former love away. She had seen him kill a man with his bare hands and that had been the end of everything. Charon had seen him kill someone too, but she was still here.
Griffin said, “I know. Sometimes I think there’s something wrong with me. I’ve seen so much killing. Done so much myself. Maybe I’ve just become desensitized.”
“Maybe. It’s one of the things I have the most trouble understanding about you, Griffin. You’re the best man I know. I’ve seen you do things for your friends no one else would do and take risks that no one else would take. I know you’re a good man.”
But was he? Could anyone who could shoot three men, then come home and wonder what was for dinner truly be called a good man? “I hope you’re right. There are times I wonder.”
“Well don’t. I know you. You wouldn’t kill anyone who wasn’t trying to kill you. I guess it just amazes me that you can go on as if it was just part of your day.”
“But you’re still with me.”
“For as long as you’ll have me, wild-man.”
“That would be a long, long time.”
“Good. Not to kill a romantic moment, but do you think this Blankenship guy will try again?”
“It’s probably better to assume he will and act accordingly.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m giving that some thought. It sort of depends on how hard he tries next time.”
“I don’t mind telling you this scares me to death, Griffin.”
“Try not to worry. I’ve brought Carl in on this. Between the two of us, we’ll work it out. Anyway, let’s talk about something else. What would you like for dinner?”
“I was going to cook, but I’m out of the mood now. Let’s just order pizza.”
“Good plan.” Griffin got out his phone and saw that he’d had a call from Paul Traylor. In the excitement of the afternoon’s events he hadn’t thought to check his phone. He activated the voice mail and heard Traylor’s voice.
“Griffin, I found something in Lynn’s room that I think you might want to have a look at. Call me when you get this message, please.”
Griffin punched in Traylor’s number, but no one picked up. When Griffin got Traylor’s voice mail he left a message saying he would call Traylor back later. Then he got down to the serious business of ordering pizza.
* * *
A few hours later, when Charon had fallen asleep on the couch, Griffin slipped back to his home office and tried Traylor again. Still no answer. He left another message and then put down his phone. He opened the top drawer to his desk and lifted out another phone. This one wasn’t on any plan anyone would ever be able to trace.
There were only a few numbers on the menu and he selected the top one. “It’s Griffin. I’m going to need a favor.”
The voice on the phone said. “You’ve got it. Give me the particulars.”
Griffin started talking.
* * *
The following morning, after Charon had left for Baba Yaga’s, Griffin tried yet again to call Paul Traylor. When he again received no answer, he decided he had better go to the Traylor home. He made sure he had extra ammunition for the Beretta and he grabbed his .357 revolver too before he went out. Pete Blankenship wouldn’t be pleased about losing three men and he might try harder next time.
Griffin just shook his head at his rear window as he gotin the truck. Fixing it would have to wait. He pulled out of the garage, and five minutes later he was tooling down Highway Five on his way to Traylor’s neighborhood. The air outside his broken window was muggy and full of portents of rain. Low-hanging dark clouds rested above the mountains. A storm was building.
When Griffin reached the Traylor home he parked in the same spot in the driveway he had used the last time. The Traylor’s two-car garage was closed. Griffin got out of the truck and went up the white brick steps to the front door. He slowed as he saw that the door was ajar. Not good.
He drew his Beretta and pushed the door inward with his foot. He went in, gun at the ready, and paused inside the foyer. He said. “Mister Traylor!”
Nothing. Griffin moved down the hall to the living room. A coffee table was overturned and there were some papers and magazines strewn on the floor. There had been a struggle, though apparently only a brief one. Griffin made a slow circuit of the room but saw nothing else to give him any idea what had happened. Why would anyone attack the Traylors? His thoughts flashed to Blankenship, but as far as he knew there was no connection.
Griffin left the living room and made a quick search of the other rooms on the ground floor. Everything seemed normal. Aside from the open front door and the slight mess in the living room, there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary. Griffin pulled out his cell and checked the time of Traylor’s last call. 5:45 in the afternoon. And he had called Traylor as night was falling, so whatever happened had happened between Traylor’s call and seven or so.
Seeing the phone reminded him of what Traylor had said. The man had found something in Lynn’s room that he thought Griffin would want to see. Griffin went up the stairs to the girl’s room. He stood in the doorway, allowing his gaze to travel around the room, checking for anything different since the last time he was here. The bookcases. Last trip all of the books had been neatly arranged, the edges of their spines even. Now some of the books on one shelf had obviously been pulled out and not replaced with care.
Griffin crossed to the bookcase and pulled the first of the misaligned books. He flipped through the pages, looking for anything hidden inside. Finding nothing, he began to go through the rest of the books. When he opened the fifth one, a folded sheet of paper fluttered to the ground.
Griffin picked up the paper and unfolded it. It was a flier advertising a tent revival sponsored by the Reverend Lazarus Cotton of the Mount Zion Church of Faith.
* * *
Two hours of cruising the streets did nothing to calm Carl down. Four additional phone calls told him he wasn’t going to get his warrants until the next morning, and an additional phone call from Wade made it clear that he’d been smart to work in the warrant on the church. After that it was time to go home.
He stopped long enough to get himself some barbeque from Woody’s Smoke Pit BBQ, a place he hadn’t visited since his friend Nichole Ward got herself killed last October. He’d been bringing the stuff back for both of them to eat when she was murdered and he hadn’t quite had the stomach to look at the food there since. Enough. He’d eat what he damned well pleased and not let the ghosts of old friends stop him.
He saw the same car on the road repeatedly as he drove and figured he was being followed. A quick phone call to the office took care of that. As he left Woody’s – promising Woody he wouldn’t be such a stranger from now on – he pulled onto the road, watched the car pull out after him and then watched them stop when a squad car pulled them over amid flashing lights and sirens.
Allan Chambers was his second in command. He’d ask them a few questions and keep them busy for the next twenty or so minutes. When he was done he’d let them go as long as they weren’t being too blatant. The important part was knowing that he’d get a tag and a license so he could know who was following him around. It paid to know who was gunning for you, even if they weren’t actually sporting any weapons.
By the time he got home Allan called him back to let him know that he was being followed
by a couple of Blackbournes. He couldn’t bring himself to be surprised. They’d just been keeping tabs, apparently. His own fault for cruising down into the Hollow. It was practically an invitation for trouble, even if it was part of his job.
The Blackbournes knew where he lived. Nothing to be done about that. He wasn’t going to run from them or anyone else.
One last stop before he headed for home.
The old house on Scufflegrit Road belonged to Andrew Hunter, an old friend of Carl’s father who had become a friend of his somewhere along the way. Andy Hunter was a curmudgeon with an attitude problem, but he was also a nice man when you caught him at the right time. It was just sometimes challenging to know when he was happy and when he was angry because he almost always had the same ornery scowl on his face.
Andy actually smiled when Carl knocked on the door and offered him a bag of barbecued pork. When in doubt, bring presents.
“Haven’t seen you in months!”
“Yeah, well, last time I was here I was busy replacing the boards on your porch. I got enough chores in my life without you adding to ‘em, Andy.”
“You’re young. You’re supposed to do chores. I’m too damned old to replace the boards you get smashed up fighting with people around my house.”
There was some debate as to whether or not Frank Blackbourne qualified as human, but Carl let it go. “I’m just checking in to see how you’re managing.”
Andy waved an impatient hand. “Liar. You’re just here for the iced tea.”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t turn some down.” It was still slightly hotter than Hell outside. The air conditioning in Andy’s old house felt like a breath of pure heaven in comparison.
Andy walked through rooms filled with books – some being refinished by the retired archaeologist – and antiquities from a dozen different cultures, and led the way into the large kitchen. Andy had the sort of kitchen that was meant to be the center of a family’s world, with tables and chairs aplenty. He just had no one living with him to occupy the space. For that reason Carl came by now and again to check on the old man. Also, he liked Andy. Andy reminded him of his father in a good way.
Two glasses of iced tea were filled and one was placed in front of him. They sat together and shot the breeze for a while and Carl caught Andy up on the minor drama in his life, including Tammy.
Andy scoffed. “Told you before to keep away from that one. She’s a nice enough girl, I suppose, but she’s never been right for you.”
“See, everyone says that to me.”
Andy looked at him past the glasses perched on the edge of his nose and shot him the sort of withering glance that had doubtless made him a terror as a teacher. “And did it ever occur to you that everyone might be right?”
“Not really, no. Most times everyone is far from right.”
“Now and again it can happen.”
“Well, I told her to stay away from me.”
“That works every time, doesn’t it? I mean until the next time she shows up out of the blue.” Andy took a sip of his tea.
“Sarcasm isn’t always the answer, Andy.”
“Of course it is. Sarcasm is the perfect tool for talking to fools.”
“Are you saying I’m a fool?”
“You’re the one who chose to run for reelection instead of early retirement.”
“I’m a bit too young to retire, Andy.”
“Man has a job that requires gunplay and handcuffs, he’s never too young to retire.” The old man paused for a moment and his eyes softened. He held up his glass of tea in a salute and then took another sip. “If your daddy had listened to me, he might have actually gotten around to retiring.”
“It was a heart attack that took him, not a damned shootout.”
“Watch your mouth around me, boy.”
“Yessir.”
“Your daddy died of a heart attack, yes, but the stress of his job didn’t help.”
Carl nodded. Of course the fact that he ate as badly as Carl didn’t help either. Carl at least had the sense to keep up with his exercises. Next step he’d worry about eating healthier. One crisis at a time.
“So did you ever go to the old tent revivals around here, Andy?”
“Of course I did. Everyone did. That was what you did when I was growing up.” He snorted as he spoke and waved one hand as if trying to shoo away a fly.
“You believe those are still going on? I thought they were a thing of the past.”
“Carl, the past is exactly and precisely one degree away from you at all times. Some people bring it back for nostalgia’s sake, and others are just too damned stupid not to repeat it.”
“Well, we got a man named Lazarus Cotton who thinks tent revivals are all sorts of neat in the area. He’d done a couple of them in the last few months. Part I don’t get is how anyone could even consider the idea in this weather.”
“You act like hot weather is a new invention, boy. It’s been around for as long as there’s been a sun in the sky.” He spoke in a distracted way and then frowned. “Did you say ‘Lazarus Cotton?’”
“Yeah.” Carl nodded. “Pretty sure that was the name.”
“Must be a family name. I remember an old preacher by that name from when I was a kid.”
Carl grinned. “I guess it must be.”
Andy gave him the stink eye. “Watch yourself, boy.”
Andy pushed himself out of his seat with a bit of obvious discomfort and Carl made himself not worry. The man was up in his years. A bit of arthritis was almost a guarantee. He wandered into the next room, his fingers tapping at his chin as he looked over the books on his shelves.
“Thing about dealing with an old fart like me is I can probably find the proof to go with whatever claims I make. You should remember that, Sonny Jim.”
Carl raised his hands in surrender. “You know you don’t have to prove anything to me, Andy.”
“Hell I don’t. You’ll start thinking you know something more than me and that’ll lead to all sorts of crazy thoughts in your bony head.”
The old man kept tottering along slowly, tapping at his chin as he looked. After a couple of minutes he came back into the room carrying a rather large photo album. “Archaeology. It’s another way of saying I like to scrapbook.”
He set the oversized book down and started flipping pages. Carl looked at old pictures of Wellman from well before he’d been born as they flapped past at high speed. There was the town square, well before the new courthouse and government complex had been built; there was the Luxor Theatre, before it had been converted into loft apartments. There was the spot where the Rabbit Hutch Diner sat now, back when it had been a gas station and a Rexall pharmacy. The town kept changing. Some people called it progress. Carl wasn’t sure what he called it, but he didn’t always like it. Christ, he was starting to sound like Andy.
Andy stopped and pulled a couple of sheets of paper from one of the clear plastic spots for pinning photos in place. They were yellowed with age and Andy handled them carefully. When they were opened up completely he showed them to Carl and grinned that little I-Told-You-So smirk of his. “There you go, smart ass.”
They were cheap print jobs. One of them was for a tent revival back in 1962, the other from 1966. Both of them advertised the locations at different spots in the county and both of them were led by one Lazarus Cotton. There were no pictures of the man in question.
“Family name indeed,” said Carl.
“I remember him. He was all about the fire and brimstone. Do right by Jesus or suffer the consequences.”
“Well, we’re probably gonna meet the man tomorrow, see if he has any connection to a girl that’s gone missing in the area.”
“Didn’t strike me as the sort that kidnapped people. More like the sort that liked extra money in his pocket.”
“Well, maybe hi
s grandson is a bit more into the romance aspects.” His voice was calm enough, all things considered.
“Now who’s being all sarcastic?”
“I learned from the best, Andy.”
“Shut up and drink your tea.”
“Only if you eat your barbeque.”
“That’s a deal.”
* * *
The sun had set by the time Carl got home. That was okay, he was feeling a bit better about life after seeing Andy. The old man always had that effect on him.
He slept peacefully and when he woke in the morning he got showered and ready for the day. After a quick cup of instant coffee he was out the door and ready to serve a few warrants. He’d be getting plenty of help on that front.
What he was not prepared for was the massive hole that someone had dug in his front yard in the late night hours. Carl looked for several seconds before he approached it. Seven feet long, four feet wide and nearly perfect along the sides. Looking down into that hole it was at least six feet deep.
Damned if it didn’t look just like an open grave.
There was no dirt anywhere around it. None. Just a hole carved into his yard.
How the hell did someone come along, dig the damned thing and not even leave a pile of dirt?
He wasn’t sure.
Just because, he called the crime unit boys out to take a few photos and look the area over. Then he headed for the office. It was going to be a very busy day.
There were warrants to serve on the Phillips family.
And then if all went well he and Wade would be stopping by an old church and having a chat with a certain reverend.
Some days it was good to be the sheriff.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Just tell me what it is that you want,” Paul Traylor said. He jerked at the ropes that bound his wrists and was rewarded with a twinge of pain. He had already rubbed the skin raw over the last few hours.
The man called Fry gave him a smile. “Nothing, sir. Nothing at all. In fact, like I already told you, I’m going to do something for you. You just have to be patient.”
Congregations of the Dead Page 11