Blood of Cain (Sean O'Brien (Mystery/Thrillers))

by Lowe, Tom

  Courtney swatted at a deer fly and continued, glancing down at the path, watchful for snakes. She stopped and pulled her left pant leg up. A tick, the size of a raisin, sucked blood from the skin over her calf muscle. She pulled the swollen insect off her, felt her shoulders spasm involuntarily, and she ran through the woods, her eyes on the obscure path.

  She looked up just as she ran directly into a spider’s web that stretched between low-hanging tree branches, the sticky web covering her face, nose, and eyelashes. A black widow spider, large as a silver dollar, dropped from a limb, suspended by a strand of web, the spider’s blood-red hourglass rocking like a pendulum within a few inches of Courtney’s nose.

  “Oh God!” she said, backing up and using her fingers to peel the web from her face.

  “God. Do you believe you deserve divine help? My little niece, Courtney. I’ve been expecting you.”

  Dillon Flanagan stepped out from behind a hickory tree.

  Courtney reached behind her back for the pistol.

  93

  I hadn’t shaved since before leaving for Ireland. And I was better off for it. Prior to flying out of Shannon, I’d bought a pair of dark framed reading glasses, and an Irish tweed hat. I wore them both as I walked through Dulles International Airport.

  CNN was on the airport TV monitors, the talking heads mentioning my name and how the Logan camp could most effectively do damage control. I heard one commentator say that the river confession video had had more than 250 million views and had achieved that number faster than any video in the history of the Internet. I looked straight ahead and walked fast, quickly finding the Hertz counter. Within twenty minutes, I was driving west on Highway 50 toward Middleburg, Virginia and into the threshold of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

  ***

  Walking into the lobby of the Red Fox Inn was like walking across a page of American history. Constructed from fieldstone and wood, the inn has more of a tavern feel, the kind of place Jefferson might have enjoyed a drink after knocking off the first draft of the Declaration of Independence. I stepped up to the front desk. A twenty-something blonde smiled wide, her blue eyes twinkling. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, I’m here to pick up a package, a delivery for my boss, David Collins. Wherever we travel, it seems like our video and PowerPoint presentation travels with us. It’s such a video centric world today.”

  “You’ve got that right. I blame it on cell phone cameras. All of them can shoot video, some in high definition. It takes a few clicks and the video can be uploaded to YouTube.”

  “That’s good and bad.” I smiled

  She pushed a strand of blond hair behind one ear. “I agree. Let me see if I can find your package.” She left through a side door and reappeared a few seconds later with the long box in her arms. “The note says Mr. O’Brien is picking it up for Mr. Collins.”

  “Dave’s the boss. I take it and tote it.”

  “Well, here you go.” She lifted the package to the counter. “It’s a little heavy.”

  “Thank you.” I took the box and started to walk away.

  She said, “You look familiar. Have you stayed with us before?”

  “No.” I could see her eyes scrutinizing my face, trying to place me. I nodded, smiled, and left. I placed the box in the trunk of the rental car and then inserted the battery back into my main cell phone as I drove off.

  There were three messages. I played the first one, from Detective Dan Grant. “Sean, where the hell are you? I’ve been trying to reach you for two days. But I guess every news outfit in the nation has been trying to do the same thing. Call me. I have some news about the perp we’re holding in connection with the carny murders.”

  I played the second message, and was caught off guard when I heard Courtney’s voice. “You said if I ever needed you … if I … never mind. I shouldn’t have called.” I felt a lump in my throat, a tightness in my chest listening to her frightened voice. The third message was from the same number, but this time Courtney didn’t leave an actual message. She inadvertently recorded a heinous scene. It was audio captured by her phone as she ran. It could hear her breathing quickly. Panting. Running. I heard her scream, followed by, “Oh God.’’

  And then I heard him.

  It was the same, unmistakable voice I’d heard when he called me. The voice of my older brother. Adrenaline pumped into my bloodstream when I heard him say, “God. Do you believe you deserve divine help? My little niece, Courtney. I’ve been expecting you.”

  Three seconds later, her phone sounded like white noise was pouring from the speaker.

  I called Detective Dan Grant. He said, “Sean, the guy we’re holding in connection with the carny murders … we have enough to go on. We spoke to his veteran’s hospital shrink, some family members, even a couple of Army buddies he fought with in Afghanistan. This guy’s PTS is off the charts. He said after banging the crap out of his head in one of our holding cells, he began remembering bits and pieces of things—things like killing Lonnie Ebert and two other carnies. But he said he was told to do it by someone else. Get this, Sean—he said he was under a spell from the devil.”

  “Are you immediately dropping charges against Courtney Burke?”

  “Yes, but we haven’t been able to find her to tell her that.”

  “Then tell the world. Hold a damn news conference before she’s killed.”

  “We’re doing that in the next hour. We just went to the DA with the stuff we have on the perp. He’s a sad case. Guy’s served three tours of duty—the first two in Iraq, and then two years in Afghanistan. His veteran’s hospital-appointed psychiatrist says the perp believes he hears voices—voices of his dead buddies from the war. Anyway, he wound up working the carny circuit. He said in Richmond, he’d met some magician, a guy he called the Prophet who told him he could cure his PTS through hypnosis back on the farm. The guy is telling us he vaguely remembers the Prophet putting him under, as in under a damn spell. Said the Prophet was a direct descendent from an ancient Irish druid god. Listen to this, the perp said this Prophet guy has some kind of commune up in the mountains where he predicts the future by human sacrifice, apparently like the druids did. He said the Prophet orders his followers to stick an ice pick into the victim. By watching the way the vic’s limbs convulse as he or she falls, along with the pattern of gushing blood, the Prophet predicts the future.”

  “Dan, I’m giving you a cell phone number. Last call was made at 3:47. I need to know where it originated. This is a life or death emergency.”

  “Give it to me.”

  I gave him the number of the phone that Courtney was using, and then I called Dave Collins and said, “You told me a few weeks ago that you have access to software that can track GPS mobile phone signals to with a few feet.”

  “I do, and I tried it with the number you gave me for Courtney Burke. She never came on the GPS radar, apparently she removed the battery and sim card.”

  “She’s put them back in because she just called me.”

  “She did?”

  “Could have been the case of a butt-dialed call because I could hear her running. She was panting, breathing hard, like someone was chasing her. And then I heard the voice of my brother, Dillon.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “It was a cold welcome that was really a threat, like the cat had caught the mouse and was smacking his perverted lips. Keep checking her phone. Maybe you’ll see something.”

  “I saw Kim today. She brought Max by, left her with us while she works a shift. Nick and I had lunch with Miss Max. Sean, I don’t know what, if anything, is going on between you and Kim. But I do know this much, she’s very worried about you. More worried than I’ve ever seen her.”

  “Tell her I’m fine. Tell her I’m trying to tie up some loose ends and will be home soon.”

  “You need to tell her, Sean.”

  “I will … I have to take this call.” I disconnected and spoke with Dan Grant.

  He said, “That call pinged
off a tower on a mountain near Linden, Virginia.”

  “Thanks, Dan.”

  “It’s Courtney’s number, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “Be careful, Sean. If it’s the same mountain, same place where our perp had, for all practical purposes … an oral lobotomy, you might run into the guy he said is the Prophet.”

  “My goal is to bring Courtney to you, get the DNA test, and end the nightmare for her.” I disconnected and started driving, speeding toward Linden, Virginia.

  94

  The man touched the barrel of the shotgun to Courtney’s back and said, “Not on my watch, girl. Raise up your arms. Now!” She did as ordered and the man lifted the .22 from her belt and stepped to the right side. He was in his mid-twenties, unshaven, feathered dirty hair under his cap. He glanced to his left as Dillon Flanagan approached.

  Dillon looked like Abe Lincoln without a beard. Rangy. Gaunt face. Piercing black eyes with a molten, swirling fervor behind the irises. He rarely blinked. He was dressed in a black coat with tails, like a maestro’s jacket worn over a black T-shirt and dark jeans. His cowboy boots were narrow-toed, ostrich-skin.

  “Greetings, Courtney,” he said, stepping closer to her. Two additional men stood on either side of him. Both looked like they’d slept for weeks in their clothes, grimy dungarees over flannel shirts, mud-caked boots. Neither had shaved or bathed recently. Courtney took a small step backwards. Dillon grinned, leaning in some. “You don’t look very pleased to see me. You tried to pull a gun on me. And all this time I thought I was your favorite uncle.” He grinned, his black eyes animated. “Diviciacus sent you, didn’t he? The man would cheat the gods to serve Caesar.”

  “You’re a freak and you live in an insane world. You’re even sicker than I remember.” She lowered her eyes from his face to the gold bracelet he wore on his left wrist.

  “I do live in an insane world, and I’m doing my part to change it.” He lifted his arm. “Is this what brings you to the mountains? You want this torc and all the power that it possess?”

  Courtney said nothing.

  He grinned, his eyes now fiery. The men stood a few feet away, each man’s whiskered face as vacant as field of weeds. Dillon said, “I think not, Courtney. You forget how to speak, girl?”

  “Give me what you stole from my grandmother.”

  “Why? Your grandmother’s dead.”

  “No! Don’t lie!” Her heart raced, palms moist.

  “The old woman finally left this world. I expect her to return as a sheep. Nothing more. Since you’re here, I have no doubt my brother, Sean, shall follow. Did you bond with your other uncle? Nothing like a family reunion to rock the cradle of your illusions. Let me paint a clearer picture for you, Courtney, one I’ll share with Uncle Sean when he joins us. You have no claim to the property in South Carolina or Ireland. That inheritance is mine. Always was. Always will be.”

  “You killed her, I know it.”

  “I can’t kill, I can only change the form of life through the act of death. It’s like an elevator ride to a different place, a different floor in your progression to reach enlightenment. That’s why the Celts never feared death in battle. They feared boredom in life. So when I change your life for the better, channeling through your death, you will one day praise me for having done so.” He turned toward his followers. “Bring her. We will begin the ceremony in a grove of mighty oak, because to catch a hungry lion, you have to set the trap by tying a lamb to the stake.”

  ***

  I followed winding mountain roads en route to Linden, the rental car getting low on gas. I didn’t want to take the time to buy gas. Every minute Courtney was being held by Dillon was a minute too long. And I knew she’d never walk out of the mountains alive. I parked in the gravel lot of a country store, dust blowing from the lot. There was one pump. And the handwritten sign read: pay inside before pumping.

  The interior of the old store was dark, some light coming from the front windows and a small wattage clear-glass bulb screwed into the base of a paddle fan. The wooden floor was made from knotty pine, worn smooth from decades of shoes and probably a lot of bare feet. I smelled barbecue pulled pork, hoop cheese, and barreled pickles as I approached the counter. A man sat motionless behind the counter, only his eyes moving under the bill of his cap, following me.

  I said, “I’ll take forty dollars’ worth of regular.”

  He nodded, stood slowly. “Okay, pump’s on.”

  I set the money in front of him on the scratched glass counter. He used two fingers, pressing down hard on the old cash register keys. The cash register was non-electric, solid, mechanical, and the color of tarnished silver. Everything in the store appeared dated, old—merchandise that could have been sold from a Sears and Roebuck catalog. It was an antique store by default avoidance of the present. Everything was old except one thing. Something I spotted when I first entered.

  A video camera.

  Wide-angle lens. High definition. Perched like a silent Cyclops to the immediate left of a mounted deer head behind and above the counter. I looked into the glass eyes of the dead deer and into the glass eye of the live camera, streaming real-time video to someplace.

  As the clerk counted back change, I asked, “Where’s Mount Gilead?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Mount Gilead. Probably not much left. Like an old logging camp back in the mountains.”

  “Sounds like someplace in the Bible, not in Virginia. Never heard of it.” He looked directly at me, unblinking while he tapped tobacco slivers into a pipe bowl.

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded and I left. I began filling the tank with gas, my back to the store entrance. I could see the store from the reflection in the side mirror. I saw the clerk answer the phone, his head nodding. The call was brief. I was twisting the gas cap back on the rental car when I heard the gravel crunching, someone approaching quickly. I spun around just as the clerk raised his arm, an ice pick clenched in his right fist.

  I ducked, the ice pick missing me by inches. I grabbed his arm at the wrist, twisting it behind his back, shoving hard. Pushing his arm to his shoulder blades. Snapping bones and cartilage. The noise like someone stepping hard on a Styrofoam cup. He screamed, a painful howling. Then I spun him around and drove my forearm into his mouth, shattering teeth like hitting a corncob with a baseball bat. He dropped to his knees vomiting pulled pork, white bread and blood.

  I grabbed him by the collar and shouted, “Where’s Dillon Flanagan? Tell me!”

  He tried to focus on me, his eyes drifting. I said, “Where’s the Prophet?”

  He attempted to smile, nerves in his smashed lips twitching, his eyes watering. He coughed and said, “Exodus.”

  “Look at me! Where’s the Prophet?”

  “Exodus.” Then he slumped over, his eyes dazed, and he mumbled, “Nobody finds the Prophet ‘ceptin’ God himself. Exodus. You have been set apart to the LORD today, for you were against your own sons and brothers, and he has blessed you this day. Exodus.”

  I left him sprawled in the gravel lot, mumbling. I jumped in the rental and sped off, gravel and dust flying. My phone buzzed. Dave Collins said, “I’ve got Courtney’s location on GPS.”

  “Where?”

  “Not too far from you. I have your location and Courtney’s on a split-screen computer satellite grid here in my boat. Sean, she’s about twenty-two miles from where you are right now. Take Highway 797 to the right. Go north to Goose Creek – to an unmarked dirt road. Looks like there’s an old logging road about eighteen miles down on your left. If Dillon’s got her, they could be walking because the GPS location dot is moving slowly. So she’s not in a car. And it appears on a satellite topographical map of Virginia that she’s in some very remote mountain country. Better hurry, Sean.”

  “Let me know if you can find an elevated area, a clear area, where I can spot them—someplace where I can get off a shot. That might be my fastest way to stop Dillon.”

 
; 95

  They led Courtney back in time. It was a small community of long-standing log cabins with river-rock chimneys, rough-hewn one-story buildings, split rail fences, a small clapboard store and a grist mill by a running stream. The big wooden wheel turned slowly as water from a trough was channeled and diverted to fall onto the blades of the timeworn wheel.

  Courtney looked at the people as she was led, arms tied behind her back, like a captured prisoner into their world. The smell of wood smoke drifted over the settlement. Women looked up curiously from the creek where they washed clothes. One man, pushing a wooden wheel-barrow piled high with corn, set it down and stared. Barefoot children wearing bib overalls played by the stream.

  The men and woman were dressed in Amish-style clothes—long dresses for the women, overalls for the men. None of the men wore hats. They all watched her with suspicion as Dillon Flanagan and three of his men walked into the camp. Courtney noticed that many of the women were pregnant.

  Dillon turned to her and said, “You’re blood related to some of those children, Courtney. They’re your little cousins. All of the women swollen with child are swollen with my children.” He grinned and whispered, “My seed will never be removed from the garden.”

  Dillon stepped up on the sawed-off stump of a tree. He shouted, “Gather about brothers and sisters. More than two dozen people formed a semi-circle around him and Courtney. He said, “This poor woman is unclean. She fornicates … prostitutes her body for the pleasure of men. She is not without redemption, but she must be isolated, taken to her knees in the dark to understand the depth of her sins. God requires it of us.”

  “Amen, Prophet,” said one of the men.