Of course, Dillon liked to think he was shrewd, so he got himself a partner in his endeavors. That partner was a big guy – not very smart but hellishly good in a fight – by the name of Rico Alvarez. Rico’s family was from New York. They’d moved down to Wellman when Rico was fifteen and by then he’d developed something of a reputation as a bad ass. He made sure to keep up with his reputation by joining the Marines for two stints and then coming back home and working as a bouncer at a club frequented by bikers. Some of the bikers were the sort that lawmen feared and others just dressed that way on the weekends, but most of them came to respect Rico’s abilities as an amateur pugilist and a shit-kicker.
That in place, Dillon decided the best way to start his new business as a pimp was to procure girls for his clients that would suit their particular needs. His first client liked young girls. Not too young, but young. He liked them to be the sort who could put up a fight, but not exactly the sort that could get too violent. In his words, he liked “a good screamer, but no biters”.
Far be it from Dillon to argue with what his clients wanted. Happy clients paid well and Dillon was pretty sure he could accommodate. He even knew where to look for girls that wouldn’t be missed too easily. Not in Wellman, because there were too many cops. Gatesville was the same way. But, hey, he thought he knew just the right girl. Looked to be around thirteen, liked to walk by herself, came from an area that even the cops seldom seemed to notice.
Sometimes people aren’t nearly as sharp as they think they are.
Adina was a very pretty girl indeed. She took after her mother that way, and even though she was barely beginning to develop she had flawless skin, a gorgeous stream of flaxen hair, blue eyes and the sort of mouth that promised a perfect kiss without even trying. She was so damned pretty, in fact, that Dillon, who had never once in his life been the sort who couldn’t woo a girl, considered sampling the wares before handing her over to his first client. Ultimately he decided he could wait, but mostly because he knew if he did anything with her, Rico would want to as well and if half the stories about Rico were true, he might leave the girl in such a damaged state that they’d have to discount her.
Also, he’d heard that virgins were worth more and he intended to bank on that.
Adina put up a fight, but after he hit her the third time in the stomach she stopped fighting so much, and putting her in the trunk was easy enough once they got her tied up.
All of which made Dillon reprehensible, but failed to prove his stupidity. No, his mistake came in thinking Adina’s family didn’t know she was pretty, and in assuming they weren’t watching.
Dillon’s Uncle Lucas was doing time in the state penitentiary for dealing. As Dillon had taken over the family business, and as he needed a good place, he also took advantage of Luke’s residence – put in Dillon’s name to avoid any unfortunate seizures by the authorities – and got the place prettied up before he even got there. Clean sheets, a new mattress, even a few decent curtains to hide the bars on the windows. Just to be on the safe side, he even installed a pair of bondage cuffs – complete with pink furry interiors to prevent broken skin – which he used to make sure Adina did not go anywhere until her new paramour arrived. Now and then a man has to invest in order to make a good profit; Dillon was no fool. He understood economics.
One phone call and he had a very happy client on the way to meet a cute little girl who was going to earn Dillon and Rico a lot of money. Because he understood economics so well, he did, indeed, tell his client that Adina was a virgin. If it turned out he was wrong, they could worry about a partial refund. Otherwise, he was guaranteed to make a lot of money off of the girl’s cherry.
Unfortunately for Dillon, Adina’s sister understood human nature even better than he understood economics. She and four of her brothers were waiting in the bedroom when Dillon opened the door to allow his client access.
Rico was there, too. A large albino was playing with his entrails when they opened the door. Rico would have screamed about the situation, but one of the silk pillowcases had been rammed into his mouth and he couldn’t get a noise out past it. “Who the fuck are you?” It took Dillon a second to realize he’d spoken to the five pale strangers. It took him another second to realize that Adina was currently standing behind a woman who made it clear that he’d been right: she’d grow up to be an amazing beauty. That they were related was impossible to miss.
The woman did not speak. Instead she simply looked at the red-haired bruiser next to her and pointed.
Gideon Blackbourne delivered a blow that could have been called legendary. His single punch into Dillon’s stomach left the entrepreneur on all fours and vomiting all over the floor. The second blow was aimed at his client. The client screamed as his collarbone was shattered.
Uncle Lucas’s house was in the woods, well away from prying neighbors. Both men had a lot of reasons to scream before Lament Blackbourne and her brothers were done discussing why it would never be prudent to touch their sister Adina again.
Dillon Harris lived through the lesson. Why?
Because sometimes you want someone out there to help spread the word that there’s a new player in town. It stops the wannabes from getting too grabby.
* * *
The Deacons gathered with Lazarus Cotton in the mine shaft he’d commandeered as his new church for the next few days. They did not question him, though surely they had earned the right as his disciples. They listened, and for that he was grateful. Say Amen.
“I have no doubt they will be waiting for us when we arrive at the chosen location.”
The Deacons nodded.
“When we get there we must, of course, expect cowardice and duplicity. We shall be prepared, children. We must be. We are the chosen of God. We will not fail Him in His mission. We shall go forth and we shall multiply. We shall punish the wicked. We shall be His light in the darkness.”
“Amen,” they agreed.
“They have a witch with them. A charlatan who knows some of the old ways. Enough that he hurt the faithful who are already suffering.” Lazarus shook his head and frowned. He was hurt that it could come to this. He clenched his beefy hands into fists and held them before his face. “‘Thou Shalt Not Suffer a Witch to Live.’ I do not believe they are capable of facing us as righteous men. They are not righteous. They consort with the devil himself.”
The Deacons’ faces were grim. They understood all too well that the devil was constantly around them, constantly ready to strike against them.
“To that end, we must attack in waves. We must be prepared to make sacrifices.” He sighed and looked toward the burnt-out shell of his church. He could not see it, not where he was currently standing, but he could almost feel its presence. A sad reminder of what the wicked could do.
“My brethren here have been tainted. The damnable witch has done something to them and they rot. The very soil where they were made to live forever has been taken from them, and in the process they have lost their way. I have spoken with them at length, and they know what is happening, they know these… heathens… have taken from them the most sacred blessing of the Lord. They also know their sacrifices shall not go in vain. They are willing to die for the Lord. They understand they have been resurrected once and could well be raised a second time if Jesus sees fit to allow it.”
“Amen.” The solemn voice of his children filled Lazarus with hope. And with his children beside him, little could stand in his way. The Lord’s will would be done.
“I have made a demonstration to the unfaithful. I have let them see what happens to those who defy the Lord. I am prepared to make an example of every person in this county if I must. We will have our justice. The Lord will be appeased. We shall overcome.”
He did not need to speak loudly. His children listened to his words as they always had.
“I can no longer hear Sister Hope in my heart. Whatever sort of demons
took her, they have either killed her or hidden her so well that even I cannot find her.” He felt his lip tremble. Sister Hope was so special to him, the very first of his children, one of the most faithful women he had ever known. Her work in Mexico was not finished, but she had children as well, and they would surely continue to spread the gospel. “But even if we cannot find her, we must remember that she is a servant of the Lord and will be taken by Him if her time on this mortal planet is done.”
Oh, how his children seethed at the thought that she had been destroyed. Sister Hope was well loved and respected.
“When the sun sets tomorrow, my children, we shall go forth and do the Lord’s work. We shall overcome if it is His will.”
“Amen!”
Lazarus nodded. Amen indeed. And Hallelujah.
All around him his Deacons listened as he laid out his plans.
And at their feet the rats moved, cleaning themselves and waiting for the words that would release them.
Those words would not come just yet.
There were a few heathens and witches that had to be taught a lesson first.
Amen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Griffin and Charon hadn’t been home half an hour when Griffin’s cell phone buzzed. He didn’t recognize the number, but he took the call.
“Guess who this is,” the caller said.
“Someone who doesn’t know I don’t like to play guess who.”
“That’s no way to be, Hoss. It’s your old pal Fry, calling to do you a favor.”
Griffin checked to see that Charon was out of earshot. “What do you want?”
“I just told you. I want to help you out.”
“And why would you want to do that?”
“I’m blowing town, Hoss. Things have gotten too hot for me now that the Reverend has brought in his deacon buddies. That’s what he calls those bad boy vampires. Deacons. I think old Fry is starting to look a mite tasty to some of them. So I’m going to rabbit before things get worse.”
“Why tell me?”
“Well now, before I go I thought you might like to know where the Reverend sleeps in the daytime. You still got plenty of hours of day left, Griffin. You could end this before it really gets started.”
“Fry, you tried to kill my friend Carl yesterday. Why would you decide to help us now?”
“Well it ain’t out of the goodness of my heart, old buddy. See, I need a little traveling fund. I figure a fellow like you, a merc like myself, would have some cash stashed away. If you were to give me, oh say, twenty grand, I’d sing you a song like Muddy Waters himself. Tell you where you could find all those vampires so you could get the jump on them.”
“You would, eh?”
“I surely would. Now here’s the deal. I’m parked behind that burned-out Shell station about three miles from your place. You know the one?”
“Yeah, near where all the construction is going on.”
“That’s the spot. Now you bring me the cash in half an hour and I’ll give you those bloodsuckers on a plate. What do you say?”
Griffin didn’t believe anything Fry was saying but he wondered about the man’s motivations. Cotton wanted revenge on Griffin and Carl, and Griffin was pretty sure he wanted to witness their demises up on the bluff. Why would he send Fry to try and draw Griffin into a trap? Didn’t make much sense.
On the other hand, were Griffin to meet with Fry, he might be able to apprehend Fry and get him to tell him the very things Fry was holding out as bait.
Griffin said, “I’ll be there. Be out of your car and standing in plain sight when I get there.”
“You don’t trust me? I’m hurt, Hoss. Don’t worry though. I’ll do just what you said.”
Griffin turned off the phone. He stepped into the kitchen where Charon was cutting up several cloves of garlic. “I have to step out for about an hour. Think I may have a lead that could help Carl and me tonight.”
“Oh? What would that be?”
“Just got to talk to a guy.”
“A guy, eh? I get the feeling you’re holding out on me, buster.”
“Maybe a little. But don’t worry. I’ll be right back.”
“You’d better be. I don’t want to miss out on the naked garlic smearing.”
Her tone was light, but Griffin could see concern in her dark eyes. He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way and then headed for his truck.
* * *
“You didn’t bring the money, did you?” Fry said. The lanky man was leaning on an old-model Corvette. He wore loose jeans and a t-shirt. Griffin could hear the twangy sounds of an old Robert Johnson song coming from the Corvette’s stereo. Appropriately it was Hellhound on My Trail. He had chosen his location well. Behind the husk of the old service station no one could see them from the road.
Griffin had gotten out of his truck with his .357 in his hand. He held the gun down by one leg. Not pointing it, but being sure Fry could see it. He said, “I didn’t bring the money because we both know your story is bullshit.”
“It is, but it got you out here.”
“I see any of your vampire pals and I’ll be sure and shoot you first.”
Fry pushed off the car. “No vampires, Hoss. Just me and you.”
“And what do you want?”
Fry grinned. “Want a piece of you, Griffin. You’ve been a pain in my ass since you showed up at the church. You and your Sheriff buddy have made me look pretty bad.”
“You want to fight me?”
“I want to beat the shit out of you. I’ve heard you’re hell on wheels in a fight, but I been all over this here world and I ain’t met anyone I couldn’t give a good stomping.”
So that was it. Fry had been wondering since they had met if he could take Griffin. Griffin had known other mercs like that. Guys who had to be the alpha wolf and couldn’t stand the idea that there might be someone tougher or better. Add that to Fry’s obviously unstable mental state and you got a seriously messed up situation like this one.
“Fry, I’m holding a gun and you’re not. How about I just shoot you in both knees and get you to tell me where Cotton is?”
Fry shook his head. “You know that won’t work, Hoss. We’re enough alike. I don’t think you got the stones to try and torture it out of me, and if you did, I can just about guarantee I’d die before I’d tell you shit.”
“And if I just get back in my truck and drive away?”
“I got a LAWS Rocket in the ’vette, Griffin. You leave and I’ll put it through your front door, blow the hell out of you and that pretty little girl of yours. And you know I’d do it.”
The threat to Charon started a cold fire in the center of Griffin’s chest. For a moment he considered just shooting the son of a bitch and getting it over with. But he was trying not to do things that way. Besides, he still might get some information out of Fry if he got the chance. Some men did have amazingly high thresholds for pain, but Griffin knew a thing or three about interrogation.
“All right,” Griffin said. “We do this your way.” He popped open the cylinder of the .357 and let the bullets fall into his hand, then pocketed them and placed the gun on the hood of his truck.
Fry grinned and started toward Griffin, his shambling gait gone, replaced by a loose-limbed sort of readiness. He rolled his shoulders. Flexed his hands. He said, “When this is done, I might just stop by and see your girl anyway. Sure is a pretty thing.”
He was trying to make Griffin angry. It was working, but not in the way Fry hoped. Griffin had long since learned to hold his rage. To channel it rather than let it control him.
The man was fast. Griffin barely saw the swift, straight kick that Fry aimed at his groin. But he did see it and he slapped it aside, causing Fry to overbalance. Griffin threw an elbow strike at Fry’s head but the lanky man twisted away with snake-lik
e quickness.
“Damn,” Fry said. “You’re a fast bastard.”
Griffin didn’t answer. If Fry wanted to waste his breath talking, he could do a monologue. But Fry, apparently seeing that his jibes weren’t having the desired effect, got down to business. He went into a crouch and shuffled in, snapping a high roundhouse kick at Griffin’s head. It was a feint, of course. No one of Fry’s experience would expect to land a high kick in this sort of fight. He expected Griffin to lean away from it which would open Griffin up to a more serious attack.
Griffin did the opposite. He moved into the kick, taking the impact on his shoulder and allowing him to get close enough to deliver a straight punch to Fry’s solar plexus. Fry stumbled back, with the wind knocked out of him. Griffin moved forward, but Fry aimed a vicious kick at Griffin’s forward knee that Griffin just managed to dodge.
Fry waded back in, launching a combination of punches. Griffin blocked and parried but one punch got through, striking a glancing blow on the side of Griffin’s skull. Griffin shook it off and landed a hammer blow with the bottom of his fist on Fry’s jaw. Griffin had long since learned not to use his knuckles on an opponent’s head. Compared to the heavy bone of the skull, the smaller bones of the fingers and knuckles were too easily broken.
Fry was starting to breathe hard, grunting with each punch he threw. He snarled in frustration at being unable to get past Griffin’s guard and bulled in, trying to grapple. Griffin faked an attempt at a hip throw and when Fry resisted, Griffin caught the back of Fry’s head with one hand and pulled it down while snapping his knee up, catching Fry full in the face.
Fry fell backwards and slammed into the side of the Corvette. Before he could recover Griffin kicked him in the stomach and then whipped his elbow across Fry’s temple. Fry slid down the side of the car and slumped on the asphalt.
Griffin stepped back, just in case Fry was pretending to be hurt worse than he was, but then the red-haired man spit a tooth out and glared up at Griffin.
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