Hell would freeze solid first.
For just an instant the façade of congeniality broke and the man in front of him sneered, an ugly expression that made him look more likely to kill than to try pleasantly conversing. Carl read that without any problem at all and felt his finger twitch on the trigger. Damn, but he was tempted.
“Perhaps I’ll see you at your office, then, Sheriff.” He smiled. The teeth, Jesus, the teeth. There was nothing kind about the expression on the dead man’s face.
“You have a nice night, Reverend.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt it will prove fruitful.” Hatred boiled off the man despite the pleasant words. “God be with you, son.”
Carl merely nodded before he closed the door.
Then he called Wade and let him know what was going on. He hated this.
There was nothing right about the situation. Not a damned thing.
* * *
Griffin sat at his desk in his Gatesville office. The night had passed without incident, despite Carl’s call. Still, he’d thought it wise to drive Charon to the shop, then spend the day in Gatesville. The vampires, or whatever the hell they were, knew where he lived and doubtless they knew about Charon. For that matter, so did Pete Blankenship. It was a little after ten in the morning, and Griffin figured he would get some paperwork done and then pick up some lunch and take it to Baba Yaga’s.
But the various forms and files he had planned to sort all sat untouched on his desk. Griffin kept thinking about Paul and Claire Traylor. They had hired him to find their daughter and now they were missing as well, and it was a good bet they were in the hands of Reverend Cotton. Odds were all three were already dead or undead. And others would follow if somebody didn’t do something. He had the seriously bad feeling those somebodies would have to be him and Carl Price.
Griffin heard the doorknob turn and he lifted the Beretta from where he had placed it on the desk and lowered it below the desktop, out of sight. Two men came in. The first, who had thinning blond hair and the beginning of a beer gut stepped to one side of the door and leaned on the wall. The second, a muscular fellow in a bright blue Nike t-shirt walked to within five feet of Griffin’s desk and stopped.
“You Griffin?” Muscles said.
“That would be me, yes.”
“Got a message for you from Pete Blankenship.”
“Ah. How is Pete? Haven’t seen him in forever.”
“You being a wise-ass or something?”
“Yes. Definitely.”
Griffin could see a bit of color in Muscles’ face. Temper, temper.
Muscles said, “Maybe after I give you the message I’ll kick your ass.”
“Unlikely, but go ahead and tell me what Pete wants.”
“He wants you to back off. Leave his people alone.”
“Or what?”
“Or we kill you.”
“You personally?”
“If Pete says so, yeah. Don’t think I can’t do it. I heard what you did to Tadpole, but I ain’t Tadpole.”
“No, you’re not. You have a lower forehead and you’re more of a mouth breather.”
“That does it, asshole,” Muscles said, reaching for the small of his back.
Griffin raised the Beretta to where Muscles could see it. Muscles froze. Griffin stood, where he could see Blondy clearly and said, “You packing too?”
Blondy nodded. Griffin said, “Where.”
“Same as him.”
Griffin said, “Turn around and lift up your shirt.”
“The fuck I will.”
“One more chance and then I shoot the both of you.”
“Do what he says, Clancy,” Muscles said. “Pete says this fucker has killed a lot of folks. Two more ain’t gonna bother him.”
Clancy turned slowly and lifted his shirt with his left hand. He had a holster on the back of his belt with a shiny 9mm of his own. Griffin said, “Lift it out and drop it on the floor. Try to turn this way and I’ll kill you.”
Clancy did as he was told and then Griffin told Muscles to do the same. When both guns were on the floor Griffin walked around the desk. He had Muscles go and stand by Clancy and then he picked up both guns. He did a quick pat down to make sure neither man had a hideout gun or other weapon, then told them to turn around.
“Don’t think this means anything,” Muscles said. “We can get more guns.”
Griffin walked back to his desk and put the two guns into the bottom drawer. He said, “I’m sure you can.” He removed the magazine from his Beretta and put it in his pocket. Then he popped the last round out of the chamber and put the gun on the desk. He walked back to where the two men stood. “Now, I believe you were going to kick my ass?”
“You unloaded your own gun,” Muscles said.
“I did.”
Muscles looked at Clancy. “See? Pete said this guy was crazy.”
The look away was supposed to make Griffin drop his guard. Muscles turned back swinging, throwing a straight right. It was a good punch. Nice and fast, and Muscles got his weight behind it. Griffin swayed to the side and slapped the punch away with his lead hand, then whipped his rear hand up and over so that the bottom of his fist landed on Muscles’ nose, exploding it into a spray of blood and cartilage. He shoved Muscles backwards into Clancy, who was trying to launch a punch of his own. The two men went down together.
Griffin walked around to the side of the fallen men and kicked Clancy in the face as he was trying to rise. Clancy groaned and slumped back to the ground. Both men were still conscious, but neither could get up unaided. Griffin dragged them into the hall. “I’m sure you guys can see yourselves out. Tell Pete I’ll be in touch.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Paul Traylor awoke to darkness and the smell of damp earth. But no, darkness wasn’t exactly what he was seeing. He knew somehow that the space he was in was without light, and yet he could see. Traylor sat up. He was in a wide, long space, interrupted every once in a while by wooden supports. The ground below him was dank, dark earth.
And he wasn’t alone.
He could see the forms of other prone bodies lying all around him. He couldn’t tell if they were sleeping, drugged, or dead. How had he ended up here? It all came back in a rush. He had been tied to a chair in a room in one of the outbuildings at that church. Claire had been there as well. Then Lynn had come in and he had thought she was going to help him, and she had grinned and he had seen...
Her teeth. Oh God, her teeth. Lynn had shown Claire and him a mouthful of sharp teeth, like porcelain daggers. And then she had leaned over him, his little girl, and he had felt those teeth at his throat and he had screamed and then... nothing. Only darkness. Then he had awoken here in this dark, vile-smelling place. And he was hungry. God, but he was hungry.
Traylor heard footsteps above him and then a crack of light appeared in the ceiling. The crack grew wider and Traylor realized someone was opening a trap door. The light flooded in and Traylor noted that it didn’t hurt his eyes. That seemed wrong somehow. Two men were looking down at him from the rectangle of light. One was Fry, the man who had kidnapped him. Traylor didn’t know the other man. He was somewhat chubby, with a round jowly face and a mostly bald head.
“Come up, Brother Paul,” the bald man said. “Three days have passed since you were given the Lord’s blessing and like Him you have arisen from the grave. Come up, son, and give thanks to He that has delivered you from the darkness into eternal life.”
Come up? How the hell was he supposed to come up? The trap door was a good ten feet above him. Weren’t they going to throw down a ladder? Traylor got to his feet, and somehow, without really thinking about it, leaped up through the trap door, landing in a crouch on the floor above. He was in the sanctuary of a church.
“Well done, son,” the bald man said. “The spirit is strong within you.”
> Traylor looked at the man. “What... what happened to me?”
“Like I said, Brother Paul, you were given the gift. Now you can join my flock. I am the Reverend Lazarus Cotton, and the Lord has worked through me to bring you into his Kingdom on Earth. ”
Traylor was suddenly aware of Fry. The man seemed to be radiating heat. Traylor could feel it coming off of him and he could feel something else. Not just feel it. Taste it. Smell it. The man was full of what Traylor hungered for. Traylor took an involuntary step toward Fry and the man swept a long, black spike into view. It seemed to be made of iron and in contrast to the warmth he felt emanating from Fry, the spike seemed to burn with a cold, blue fire.
“No, Brother Paul, no,” Cotton said. “Fry is one of the faithful. We never drink from the faithful, but only from those who dwell in sin.”
“I’m hungry,” Traylor said.
Cotton said, “Of course you are. You have fasted for three days and now you have come back to the world, but it is a far different world than the one you left, because now you are one with the Lord. And the Lord will provide, Brother Paul. Ask and it shall be given. Come. Walk with me, son.”
Cotton turned and started toward the front of the sanctuary. Fry closed the trap door and slid a heavy rug over it. Cotton stopped in front of the pulpit. A man lay on the floor in front of a small railing, which circled the front of the church. His hands were tied and he had a wad of cloth jammed in his mouth and secured to his head with a strap. His eyes were wide and full of fear. Traylor could smell the man’s sweat. More importantly he could smell the blood in the man’s veins.
Reverend Cotton said, “This man is an unbeliever. A sinner and one who has turned his back upon the Lord. But even men such as he have a place in the kingdom of God. Come, Brother Paul. Kneel here beside me and take communion with me.”
Cotton dropped to the floor next to the bound man with surprising agility. The man began to struggle and his eyes grew even wider. As Traylor watched, Cotton opened his mouth and it seemed the reverend’s lower jaw distended farther than should have been possible, and within that gaping maw, Cotton’s teeth grew long and sharp. Cotton drew his head back and then lowered it quickly, closing those knife-like teeth on the throat of the struggling man. The man gave a muffled scream and jerked around in agony as blood began to spurt from around Cotton’s mouth.
Cotton lifted his head and looked toward Traylor. Blood ran from the corners of his mouth and he said, “Drink ye of this, for it is my blood, which is shed for many for the remission of sin.”
Traylor could smell only the blood now, see only the blood. He hunched forward, and felt his own mouth gaping impossibly wide. The bound man’s struggles were growing weaker and Traylor lunged forward, sinking his teeth into the torn flesh of the man’s throat.
Through the roaring in his ears, Traylor could hear Cotton speaking. “This cup is the new testament in my blood. This do ye as oft as you drink it, in remembrance of me.”
Traylor drank deeply.
* * *
The night was ending soon and there was much that needed to be done. Lazarus Cotton stared at the church and shook his head, felt his lips press together with an anger he hadn’t actually felt since he’d come back from the dead.
Oh, that had been a glorious revelation indeed. He did not lie when he said he’d been a sinner. He most assuredly had. Whoring, drinking, gambling, beating down anyone who crossed his path, stealing. His was a litany of sins that stretched across years, possibly even decades.
His father had been a grafter, and Cotton was born into the family business. The only reason his father kept him initially was because a man with a baby automatically won a certain amount of sympathy. To this day he did not know how his mother had died – though he had a few suspicions and most of them revolved around his father’s temper – but he’d heard a hundred different tales of woe that his dear daddy shared with anyone who was willing to listen and especially the occasional lonely housewife. After all, the old man sold bibles door to door. How could he possibly be a bad man when he sold copies of the Good Book? Oh, how easily Cotton had lied back in those days. How easily he’d ignored the word of the Lord and the many opportunities he’d been provided.
To look at Cotton these days few would know that in his day he’d been a womanizer. He had forsaken that life of course, and even if he hadn’t there was no desire for fornication left in him. The need to share his seed with women was gone, taken when he was given a second chance at life. That seemed to be the case with most of the brethren. He felt that was merely a sign of righteousness.
Oh, yes, he’d lived a life of sin.
Cotton wandered the perimeter of the church, sniffing the air and taking in the scents of the vile men who had come here and tried to hurt the faithful. They had not made it to the brick buildings where he kept the uninitiated. That had now been handled. There were no new acolytes left. All had been given the blessings of the Lord. Can you say Amen?
They were resting now, would continue to rest in their safe places until the appropriate time had passed and the essence of the Lord came into them. Three days his namesake had been dead. Three days Jesus Christ rested in His tomb. How could anyone expect less time in the darkness than that?
He’d been in Savannah, Georgia, when he was saved. Four days on a drunken binge, and he’d lost everything he had to a group of men who wanted to take what was his without permission. He fought, he lost. And while he was crawling in the mud near the edge of the Savannah River, bleeding from a deep wound in his stomach and two more in his back, he begged God for another chance. Perhaps a chance at revenge, but most assuredly another chance at living, a chance to redeem himself in the eyes of the Lord.
And the Lord answered. The Beggar that came upon him was a thin man, pale and wretched, surely the exact sort that Jesus took to his breast and said would inherit the Earth.
The wretch looked at him and said, “Thank you for this. I love you.” And then he attacked. And three days later the man who renamed himself Lazarus Cotton arose from the deep muck near the river. The world that had been so unkind in his last years was new to him. He could see as never before, could understand the beauty of the world as he never thought possible.
The Beggar waited for him. Told him what he needed to know, and then left. He never saw The Beggar again.
But he found the men who took from him.
They were the first to fall before his wrath. They had fallen upon another, a woman this time, and they’d had their way with her. The pigs were still having their way when Lazarus came upon them. They did not finish their vile works.
Seeing her broken, bloodied, and crying in the alleyway, Lazarus understood what he was supposed to do. He gave her the same glorious offering of Christ that he had been given. He offered her salvation. She accepted gratefully.
Sometimes Sister Hope still wrote to him. She spoke of the great work she was doing in the Lord’s name down in Mexico. He was glad of it, grateful to her and to God Above for the blessings offered to him that he then shared. She wore the habit of a nun, because the Catholic faith was prevalent in Mexico, but she preached the truth, same as he did.
The Lord was kind.
Still, the Lord helped those who helped themselves. It was time to make a few changes.
He thought of the craven Sheriff who would not step from his house when Lazarus came to see him. He thought of the man named Griffin, who had led the Sheriff to the church. Griffin had not been home when Lazarus had dropped by.
A mere trial offered by the Lord. Another obstacle for the righteous. God offered tests and Lazarus Cotton did all he could to pass those tests and show that he was worthy of the blessings bestowed upon him by his Savior.
They were as ready as they could be. The sun was coming up.
Fry would have to be elsewhere. So much to do.
So very much to do.
“Praise the Lord. Praise Jesus. Amen.” Cotton’s fists clenched together with enough strength to bend steel. The bones within his thick hands creaked from the force but he never noticed.
The Lord had taken away the pain that he and the brethren suffered.
The Lord was kind that way.
Amen.
* * *
“Griffin, it’s Martha Lewis,” the voice on the phone said. Martha was a waitress at The Biscuit House, a local greasy spoon. “You know that guy you said to watch out for, the one called Tadpole? He’s here now.”
“Is he alone?”
“No, got a couple of folks with him. Looks like a mother and daughter. I don’t know them.”
Griffin said, “See that it takes a while to serve them. I’m on my way.”
“I’ll put Denise on their table. Takes her forever to do anything.”
Griffin turned off the phone and checked the time. Coming up on four in the afternoon. He could be at The Biscuit House in ten minutes if traffic was good. He hurried to the garage and was soon trundling down Highway Five. He kept the windows up and the AC blasting in the truck. Humidity level was like ninety-six per cent. If they didn’t get some relief soon people were going to start drowning in the open air.
Griffin recognized Tadpole’s SUV as he pulled into the parking lot of The Biscuit House. Putting Martha on watch had been a good plan. He had also alerted several other people at local eateries. Guy like Tadpole, in his role as procurer, would start by trying to get in good with a potential young target’s mother. Take her to lunch. Buy her some gifts. Make her think he was interested. Step two would be to start spending a lot of time at the target’s house. Just like he had done with Irene Chandler. But Tadpole wasn’t going to get to step two this time.
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