Congregations of the Dead

by Moore, James A. ; Rutledge, Charles R. ;

  Jolene was nothing if not patient. That was something she’d learned from her mother.

  Besides, the changes that were starting in her body were new to her. It would take a while to adjust to them.

  Good things come to those who wait. Better things come to those who prepare.

  She stayed in front of the sheriff ’s house for almost an hour before she left. There was no reason to hurry. She had all the time in the world.

  * * *

  Four hours of sleep. Sort of. There was a lot of waking up at the smallest noises, mixed with a dozen or so flashbacks to his feet falling through Tammy’s coffin lid to keep him company as he tried to doze.

  But despite his fears the sun did rise and the world went about its business. And Carl got his ass out of bed, did his morning exercises – except for his jogging because it was still raining and there was no end in sight – and then got ready for the day.

  Phone messages: well, he had to call goddamned near everyone in the city of Wellman and in the county of Brennert, because they all wanted to know what had happened. Every last one of them was welcome to kiss his ass. He had a job to do and they could read the report he’d finished and emailed to the department’s server at three in the morning.

  By ten he was having a good time following a series of unpleasant phone calls. For a change of pace the latest call had been about something he could possibly handle – a hit and run up near Mooney’s Bluff. He took State Road 214 with caution, because the anonymous tip couldn’t say exactly where the body was located, only that it was near mile marker 17. The area was not comfortable for driving and he couldn’t begin to understand why anyone would have been walking along the stretch of road in the first place. It was too wet, too hot, and too treacherous an area to make wandering around on foot a good notion.

  The rain on the windshield tried to hide the world away and the wipers did their part to bring it back into focus. Just the same if he hadn’t seen the flares somebody had laid out near the corpse he would have probably driven straight past it.

  Carl turned on the flashers, parked at the very edge of the road and set the parking brake. The road was too damned steep to take any chances. As soon as he stepped from the truck the sound of water striking his hat became a drumming fury. The slicker was doing its job however, and he was mostly dry. A quick phone call to the office got him in contact with Burley, who had managed to get his arm broken during the attack at the cemetery. It was a clean break and they were understaffed; Burley was good enough to come in and answer the phones.

  “You find the site, Carl?”

  “I did, Burley. Hang on.” He moved closer, looking around the area. There were no skid marks on the road, but that meant nothing in the current weather. There were four flares sputtering and giving off reddish light. Someone had done their best to shelter them from the rain, but that was hardly a necessity. Still, the columns of smoke billowed from under small piles of rocks or other debris that had been used to help stay the waters or maybe to keep the flares from moving away in the steady rains.

  Directly between the four flares a dead man stared toward the sky, his eyes open, his mouth hanging loosely agape. The impact had blown half the lower jaw away, and shattered teeth glared from the ruined orifice. The man was heavyset, mid-forties, wearing a suit that said he was likely traveling from somewhere else, and soaked through by the rain. His hair was trailing downhill, waving in the constant stream that surrounded his skull like a halo. A large portion of the back of his head had been shattered by the impact as well, and gray matter seeped into the stream.

  “Found him. He’s definitely dead.”

  “Well, that’s one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Same person that called before said there’s two more bodies on the same stretch of road, Carl.”

  “The same number?”

  “Affirmative. It’s a burner. I already checked.”

  “Is it listed to anyone?”

  “Man named Chet Ellery, from Nacogdoches, Texas.”

  Carl stared at the Texas State flag on the dead man’s lapel. “I got a dollar says I just might have found Chet Ellery.”

  Burley was starting to answer when the hiss of tires on the road reached past the rain and the conversation and registered in Carl’s mind. He turned, saw the truck coming his way, and sprinted across the road. The truck had seen better days; it was a great white whale of a truck, with faded paint, rust spots and a spider-webbed windshield. Several serious dents along the front end showed where something or several someones had hit the hood, the grill, the bumper. Whoever was driving was only a silhouette inside, but he could make out the motions of the man’s arms as he turned the truck to follow him.

  Perfect. Carl felt his mouth pull into a tight smile as he threw himself off the road and into the ravine on the side he was aiming for.

  The truck had three choices: follow and go over the side, stop, or swerve back onto the road and head off.

  The sound of brakes and hissing tires told Carl what he needed to know. The ravine was deep enough to cause a truck problems, but not so steep that he couldn’t stand back up after he hit the gravel. The ground was properly saturated and his pants were soaked in an instant.

  One more reason to be in a bad mood.

  Somewhere up on the road, near a dead man, his phone was lying on the ground and getting wet. He wasn’t thrilled about that, either.

  Carl rose in time to see the men starting to climb from the truck. He did not recognize them. He did not care. They looked toward the spot where he’d gone over the side and then looked toward him, where he was climbing back to level ground.

  They were carrying guns. So was Carl.

  “You need to stop right there!” He barked his orders loud and clear. They did not listen.

  One of them reached for his back, where he kept his pistol. Carl shot him in the face. The way his mouth exploded immediately made the sheriff think of the dead hit and run victim. The shot was not fatal, but it was definitely enough to change the landscape of the man’s features. He fell back shrieking, all thoughts of going for his gun removed along with his incisors and lips.

  “I said ‘Stop!’” He pointed the gun at the other man. The man looked toward his friend where he was lying on the ground and screaming, and then slowly raised his hands above his head. No sudden moves.

  He licked his lips as he looked at Carl. “I didn’t do nothing!” Deep Southern accent. Not local. Maybe as far away as Texas.

  “You tried to run me down, asshole.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “Get up against the truck! Don’t make me ask twice.” The man was looking around too much and he was making Carl nervous. People didn’t often feel the need to look at the landscape quite that much unless they were either planning something or expecting someone. Either way, Carl didn’t much like it.

  Carl’s shoes squelched as he headed for the man. The wind picked up, the rain fell harder. Everything tried to distract him from what he had to do, what he had to take care of.

  And from the other vehicle that came for him.

  He likely would have never noticed, but the one he’d told to go up against the truck was looking past his shoulder, looking beyond him. Not just glancing, but actually looking, and so Carl had to look, and was looking when the car with the Texas plates came down the road from the same direction as the truck.

  The man in the car didn’t bother with stopping. He barely slowed. The passenger’s side window exploded and Carl dropped. He didn’t try running or ducking or finding cover, because the car was coming too fast and there was only the one option, so he let his legs go and fell toward the ground, catching himself on his one palm and on the butt of his pistol.

  The bullets missed him, but they punched three holes in the old white truck, and at least two of them also made holes in s
aid truck’s driver. The man added his own screams to the sounds of the man Carl’d shot.

  Carl stayed down but took the time to aim and shoot three rounds of his own at the car as it thundered down the road. The driver didn’t try to fire again. He was too busy keeping his vehicle on the road as it curved into a hairpin.

  He could have gone after the man. He could have.

  Instead he followed the rules and crawled over to the driver he’d been ready to ask questions.

  The man whimpered and looked at where the car had gone past.

  The wounds were in his stomach, the bullets in his guts. Even if he lived he’d be fighting sepsis for a while.

  “Sit still. I’ll call for an ambulance.”

  He looked to the side of the road where his phone was still sitting. Sometimes fate is kind; the device was perched on a couple of rocks that were keeping it out of the worst of the rain.

  He moved over to it and checked. Burley was still on the line. “Carl? Answer me damn it!” The man’s voice was justifiably panicked.

  “Get me an ambulance. Make it two. We’ve got gunshot victims.” He gave what few details he had on the car that came past and told Burley to send two more cars to come look for it. Some damned fool with a gun was shooting people. As a rule if someone was shooting at cops, they had to be dealt with as quickly as possible. If they’d shoot at cops, they’d shoot at anything.

  The man on the ground moaned. “Why’d you do that, Fry? I thought we was friends?”

  Fry. The name rang in Carl’s ears. Had Wade said a man named Fry was serving Lazarus Cotton? He’d have to check.

  First, however, he had to offer what he could by way of aid to the two men on the ground. He ran to the truck and reached into the back seat, searching for his first aid kit.

  And the son of a bitch came back around the corner. He heard the car’s engine whining as it tried to get up the steep hill, heard the hiss of tires on wet asphalt, and jumped the rest of the way into his truck. The vehicle rocked violently as the car smashed into the side panel. Carl bounced around inside, pulling into as much of a ball as he could manage, felt the cushioned back seat take most of the force meant to damage him as glass exploded into the cabin.

  He was back up a second later and drawing his second weapon. The car that hit his truck was good enough to take out the windows, so it was easy to aim.

  The first bullet hit square where the driver’s head should have been. The second and third made the car’s engine bleed steam. Carl kicked open the door on the far side of the truck and backed out, trying to look everywhere at once.

  The driver’s side door opened up on the car and somebody scurried out. Carl moved, trying to get a good angle to shoot the man, but there simply wasn’t one. The truck was too close, the car door blocked too much and the rain was increasing again, falling hard enough to make everything more than three feet away look like it was hidden by heavy silver mists.

  “Nice to meet you, Sheriff!” The voice was cheerful! Carl shook his head as he tried to figure out where exactly the voice was coming from. “Reverend Cotton sends his regards. I’m supposed to give you a message. Be up here tomorrow night. Don’t be late. You and your friend Griffin fail to show up, and what happens in Whittaker tonight will be minor in comparison to what happens to Wellman.” The voice was actually getting more distant. The fucker was hiding. Probably in the very ravine Carl had used to avoid getting run down.

  “Get up here where I can see you!”

  “Soon enough, Sheriff. Until then, remember what happens in Whittaker could happen all over the county if you don’t show up!”

  Whittaker wasn’t much of a town. It was more like an oversized trailer park. There were maybe two hundred people all told in the town. Carl reached for his cell phone and cursed. He’d dropped it a second time and he couldn’t see the damned thing.

  The truck radio would have to do. He hated having to use the radio. Too many people liked to listen in on the radio in case there was something exciting going on. Something to feed the gossip mills.

  Some things couldn’t be helped.

  He moved around the truck and paused when he realized that the two men he’d been up against were still alive. The one he’d shot in the face was in the same position, moaning and trying not to choke on his own blood. The other one was pinned under the truck, his legs crushed beneath the front tires. The bumper had slammed his shoulder into the side of Carl’s truck. The odds were good that there were internal damages so severe he wouldn’t live all the way to the hospital, but for now he was alive.

  Carl wasn’t feeling particularly cheery. He wasn’t feeling much of anything but shaken again.

  Still, he listened when the man pinned to his truck spoke, though it was hard to make out the words at first. The man couldn’t seem to catch his breath.

  “That reverend, he’s going to kill you.” The man’s face was white with shock. It’s possible some women would have thought he was a good looking man, but Carl couldn’t see past the fact that the man warning him was staring at him with crazy eyes. He didn’t seem to care that he was pinned. He just wanted to make sure Carl knew he was screwed. “It’s gonna last, too. I seen him do some serious harm before, but you? You killed his flock. He’s gonna make you suffer.”

  Carl stood and moved to his truck. Let the fucker die alone.

  There were more important matters to contend with. Like warning Wade. And trying to handle Whittaker before it was too late.

  By the time he got through on the radio Whittaker was already fated to die. It did not go gently.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Carl got hold of the office easily enough, and Burley was responsive.

  “You need at least four cars on the way to Whittaker, Burley. I want the town evacuated.”

  “Evacuated?” Burley’s voice carried shock. “That’s a lot of effort, Carl. I mean, of course I’ll get it done, but what’s the reason?”

  “Just had a man shooting at me and telling me that Whittaker’s gonna get bombed. I tend to take that sort of thing seriously.”

  “You got it.”

  “Burley, no playing around. I want that town emptied ASAP.”

  “No downtime. I’m getting off the radio.”

  “Not yet. Expedite the ambulances. The situation’s worse than it was. Just to be safe, you need to get at least a few of the local medical centers near Whittaker prepared for trouble. Make sure they have extra people on staff.” He had a feeling the situation would get bad, even if they managed to evacuate the town.

  That was the end of the call.

  That was not the end of the situation.

  * * *

  Deputy Lee Brumby was the sort of cop most of the other cops admired, even if it was grudgingly. He had no major commendations. He had never stopped a hostage situation. He had never stopped a major drug ring and he did not hold any records of any kind, except one for perfect attendance. Lee was a lifer, pure and simple. He did his job and he did it well, and he made sure he was on time and in uniform. There were no written complaints against the man. He seldom drank, he was faithful to his wife and he had two kids.

  He also had a powerful dislike for illegal narcotics, which meant a lot of the people in Whittaker did not like him very much.

  Whittaker wasn’t really a town. It barely qualified on any maps, except for the maps created and employed by the North Georgia Power and Water Company, which supplied all of the mobile homes in the area with fresh water, electricity, and in a few cases with natural gas. Most all of the trailers in the area used propane.

  If you asked Carl Price to define Whittaker, he’d ruminate for a moment, then come up with what he considered appropriately politically-correct terminology. Something along the lines of “the economically disenfranchised”. He’d say it with a grin, but he’d at least partially mean it. To him a lot of t
he people living in the area were merely down on their luck.

  To Lee Brumby, who’d been raised in deep poverty with a family full of mouths to feed, who’d spent most of his high school years working a job when school was done, the entire place was a pit of losers, crack-heads and the terminally lazy. You could count on business in Whittaker picking up around the same time the unemployment checks and Welfare checks arrived in the mail. Business, by the by, meant either a drive over to Cherry’s Liquor Store or one of several trailers that specialized in trading checks for cash and drugs in varying combinations.

  Lee wasn’t quite as liberal as the Sheriff. They did not always see eye to eye.

  That said, he was a deputy and knew his place well enough. As he drove into Whittaker with John Hayes beside him, he was in full rant mode. He was sick to death of Whittaker and the people who populated the cesspool.

  “Lee, you don’t have to like these folks, but if there’s a threat to them, we have to get them out of their homes.”

  Lee shook his head and snorted. “They aren’t going to listen. They never do.”

  “We tell them there’s a bomb threat, they’ll get their asses in gear. No one here wants to get blown up.” Hayes was new to the force. He was a rookie as far as Lee was concerned. That meant he was still a little too big a believer in the general good of people. Brumby had long since accepted that most people were only capable of staying well behaved as long as they feared someone in authority locking them away. He never said anything of the sort to civilians, but he knew it in his heart of hearts.

  They were both right. Some of the people in trailers were quick to grab a few belongings and head for the road. Others wanted to argue. Lee didn’t mind arguing right back and Hayes did his best to mediate.

  They’d managed a total of seventeen trailers between them and the other six deputies – who were going door to door and using bullhorns when they couldn’t get answers – before they became aware they were already far too late to save the people of Whittaker, or themselves for that matter.