Refuge Book 1 - Night of the Blood Sky

by Jeremy Bishop

  Back to Dodge. “Everyone needs to go home. Go to bed. If you had plans for the fourth, they’re cancelled. If you’re waiting for family or friends from Ashland, chances are they’re going to be delayed on account of the strangeness. So just go to bed, and in the morning, I’ll have answers for all of you. I promise.”

  Dodge frowned, but it lasted just a moment before he pushed it away and replaced his true expression with a smile.

  How many Sunday mornings does he pull that trick, she wondered.

  “You heard the Sheriff,” he said. “Go home. Pray for our missing—”

  Our missing? He’s baiting me, she decided, but she let it slide.

  “—and thank God we’re all safe,” the pastor continued. “We’ll meet back here first thing in the morning. Seven a.m. We’ll have coffee and donuts in the foyer.”

  Coffee and donuts placated a congregation like nothing else on the planet. The group quieted and began dispersing. She wasn’t happy about being told when she’d be addressing the town, but seeing as how she’d likely be awake all night, an early morning meeting would be for the best.

  When he finished saying quick goodbyes, Dodge turned to her and said, “Where do we start?”

  “You can start by going home and taking your...whatever she is, with you. I don’t want anyone not coming home from Ashland driving on the roads and confusing things.”

  They locked eyes for a few seconds. He then walked away, approached the woman from the bar and handed her his keys. He returned with a snarky grin that Rule nearly slapped off of him. “She knows where I live.”

  “I bet she does,” Rule replied. “But you’re still not—”

  “Most of this town trusts me more than you, and far more than the Mayor. You’re going to need me to support whatever lie you tell them in the morning, so I want to know what’s really going on.”

  That surprised her. “No demons? No Devil? You’re really after the truth?”

  “I’m not barring out the supernatural, but I recognize it could be something more...mundane.”

  “Or scientific,” Winslow clarified. The two men couldn’t be further apart on the spectrum of personal beliefs. But Dodge gave a nod.

  “If that’s the case,” Dodge said. “They’ll swallow it a lot better coming from me.”

  “If you get in my way,” Rule said, “I’ll lock you in a cell for the rest of the night.”

  “You won’t even know I’m there,” Dodge said with a satisfied grin.

  “I’m coming too,” Winslow said, and when Carol began to complain, he added, “Go home. Get some rest. We’ll have it figured out by morning.”

  Carol relented, and the pair said their goodbyes before she drove away, leaving Rule in the middle of Main Street with Dodge and Winslow Herman.

  Winslow clapped his hands together and rubbed them back and forth like he was about to dig into a big plate of baby-back ribs. “So, what’s the plan?”

  Rule laid it out for them, plain and simple, so they knew she wasn’t joking. “We’re going to go to the station and have a sit.”

  11

  Griffin Butler saw motion to his right. A rustle of leaves accompanied the shifting shadow behind a thick rhododendron, framed on either side by small white Cape Cod style homes. Standing in the shade of an oak tree, hidden from the nearby streetlight, he paused, gave the neighborhood a quick once over and said, “It’s just me. You can come out.”

  Two shapes emerged from the protective shroud of the bush. As they came into the light, Griffin stepped into the street and crossed over toward them.

  “Mr. Butler...” Radar said, his voice apologetic.

  “The Sheriff asked me to check on you,” Griffin said. “She’s the only person I’m going to report to.”

  The boy relaxed, and the transformation made Griffin angry. What had the boy’s father done to make him so afraid? There were rumors, of course. Stories about belts and fists and the hiding of bruises, but they were such stereotypes, Griffin wasn’t sure which were real and which were inspired by a Lifetime Network made-for-TV movie. Rule knew more than most, but she wasn’t sharing, which was a testament to her professionalism, but since Radar still lived at home and his father wasn’t locked up, clearly nothing had been proven.

  “Do—do you know what’s wrong with the sky?” Lisa asked. She held on to Radar’s thin arm like he was the only thing holding her to the ground.

  Griffin turned his head to the night sky. It was still cloaked in waves of translucent red. The way they moved, sliding through the sky like a sinister fog, made him nervous. Made everyone nervous. And not just because it shouldn’t be there. There was just something...off about it. Something not right. He tried to sound casual and confident. “We’ll figure it out.”

  “Do you think it could be, like a poisonous gas or something?” Radar asked. “A chemical attack?”

  “You know I was in the military, right?” Griffin asked. Both kids nodded. “I can promise you both, Refuge has absolutely no strategic value. If there were a nuclear war, this would be one of the few places left untouched on the planet. Why do you think they named it Refuge?”

  Radar half smiled. “I guess.”

  “Might want to get inside soon, though,” Griffin advised. “Won’t be long before people start driving back from Ashland.”

  “We were watching for headlights,” Lisa said, standing behind Radar. Her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment. Watching for headlights wasn’t the only thing these two were doing inside the rhododendron. But it explained how he was able to sneak up on them. He smiled without realizing it.

  “What is it?” Radar asked, sounding nervous, like he’d been caught doing something, which in a sense, he had been.

  “Just realized I’ve seen you two playing inside and around that bush for most of your lives.”

  Radar looked back at the big plant, then at Lisa. “Yeah...”

  “Of course, I’ve never seen you come out looking so guilty.” Before Radar could react, Griffin burst out laughing. After everything that had happened that night, with Avalon, with the bell, and the stars, he needed a release and found it by teasing Radar. Happily, the boy was able to find the humor in the jab and joined in the laughter, followed by Lisa, who sounded a little less comfortable.

  Griffin wiped a tear from his eye and controlled himself. “Listen, you guys can go to your separate houses if you want, or you can stay in the bush. It’s your call, but don’t leave, okay? Sheriff wants to know that you’re here and that you’re safe.”

  Both nodded.

  Griffin tilted his head toward his home, which was two houses down on the opposite side of the street. “I’m going to my house to pick something up. I’ll be in and out inside of ten minutes. With the phones out, if you need anything, or have an emergency, you head straight for the police station. If Frost or Rule aren’t there, I will be.”

  Nods again.

  “Good.” He took two steps away, heading for his house.

  Lisa stopped him. “Is everything going to be okay? Are our families okay?”

  “Everything’s going to be fine,” Griffin said. “Stranger things have happened.”

  Lisa smiled slightly, in a way that said she knew he was lying, but that she appreciated it.

  “Thanks,” Radar said, heading back toward the rhododendron.

  Griffin made for his house. He glanced back over his shoulder. If Radar and Lisa were back in the bush, he couldn’t tell. They’re good at hiding, he thought, and he wondered how much of that was a learned defense for Radar.

  He slipped past the open gate of his white picket fence that he’d been meaning to remove for several years. The iconic symbol of the suburban American dream just mocked him now. His daughter was a strung-out addict and he was a single father, who had failed miserably at helping his one and only child adapt to life without a mother.

  He might have succeeded if Jess had died suddenly. He sometimes felt jealous of Becky. Her husband’s death was tragic
, but it also gave her drive and purpose. He would never tell her to her face, but she’d become a better and stronger woman as a result. Jess’s death had been long and slow. The cancer had tortured her, and when she’d fought back, it fought harder. Two years of treatment, of long drives to Boston and of sleepless nights, had left him broken and weary—so much so that he’d never noticed how it all had affected Avalon. She was sixteen when Jess had been diagnosed. Eighteen when her mother had died. Avalon moved out a month later. Six months after that, she went to California with some friends. He fooled himself into hoping the change of scenery would do her good, but that clearly had not been the case.

  The front door was unlocked. He didn’t know anyone in town who locked their house or car, unless they traveled to Concord or Manch-Vegas. At least not since Becky had become the sheriff. The town went through a few rough years, but they were in the past now.

  The light switch just inside the door clicked beneath the weight of his finger, but it produced no results. Damnit, he thought, shaking his head. He’d been one of the few people to not retrofit their homes. It wasn’t because he disagreed with the effort; he just didn’t want to ruin Jess’s home. Perhaps it was time to move past his sentimentality.

  He took the stairs two at a time, each one groaning under his weight. The old Victorian home had been Jess’s dream house. It wasn’t exactly Griffin’s style, but he couldn’t bring himself to sell it, and the large rooms made for excellent studio space for his large paintings. He didn’t make a lot of money, despite being well known and respected in the art world. His work had even been compared favorably to Bosch. But not many people could afford what he charged for his fifteen-foot long monstrosities. He only needed to sell a few every year to make a living, which was another benefit to staying in Refuge. Everything was so damn cheap.

  He paused in front of his studio door, looking into the dark space. Moonlight streamed through the windows, creating rectangles of light on the dark hardwood floor. A shiver ran up his back. He couldn’t see the recently finished painting, but he could see the twisted, dark image in his mind’s eye. After the strange night he’d had, that kind of darkness, inspired by his very real past, was not something he wanted to dwell on. He took a long deep breath through his nose, letting the familiar scents of oil paint and turpentine return a sense of normalcy to his mind, and then he headed for the bedroom.

  After gathering two flashlights and a strap-on headlamp from the top drawer of his bureau, he moved to the closet. He hadn’t had any need for the satellite phone in years, but he knew exactly where it was. He slid a box of Jess’s clothing to the side—he’d manage to box it up, but resisted bringing it to the Salvation Army—and pulled out the fireproof safe.

  It had been four years since he’d last opened the safe, but he quickly entered the combination and opened the lid. Inside was a stack of bills—$10,000 for emergencies—his passport, the satellite phone, his dog tags, an M9 handgun, a holster, three magazines and a box full of 9mm ammunition. He took out the phone and pressed the power button. As expected, it was dead. He’d have to recharge it back at the station.

  He slid the phone in his pocket, rested his hands on the safe lid and looked down at the handgun. It had been a long time since he’d held it and even longer since he’d shot it. He reached for it, but stopped short.

  Don’t be stupid, he told himself, you can’t shoot at a different moon.

  The lid slapped closed, but he stopped before locking it. People in town were going to panic. It seemed obvious to him. Something in the world had gotten screwed up, and someone was going to do something stupid as a result. And if he was going to be manning the station while Rule and Frost dealt with the town...

  He opened the safe and picked up the M9. He loaded the magazines and slapped one into the handle of the pistol, but he didn’t chamber a round. The two spare magazines went in his jeans pocket, which was already full with his wallet. But the other side now held two phones and his keys. He considered breaking out his old cargo pants, but opted for simplification instead. He removed the wallet, but kept his driver’s license, in case State Troopers showed up. He put his key chain, which held ten different keys and a collection of tiny knickknacks on the bureau, but kept his car key. Better, he thought, and then he clipped the now holstered gun to his belt where everyone could see it.

  As he left the house, he considered walking back to the station. It wasn’t far. But he opened the silver Ford Fusion’s door and started the engine for the same reason he’d taken the gun. If shit started flying in the town of Refuge, he wanted to be able to move himself—and Avalon—out of the way quickly.

  12

  Rule sat behind her desk in the wide, open, front room of the station. She hadn’t moved since placing herself in the seat and leaning back. Normally she resisted sitting. Unless there was paperwork on the desk and a pen in her hand, sitting felt stagnant. Like a swamp. And Rule hated swamps. Mostly because they stunk, a fact she learned as a child when she slipped off a log and landed in some old brown water full of very green and slimy frog eggs. That’s what sitting felt like to her. But tonight, she welcomed the chair’s support.

  She needed to talk to someone. Verbalizing always helped her sort things out. But Frost was in the back, checking on Avalon. Winslow was bent over a desk, scribbling something like words onto a piece of paper. That left her with Dodge, who was basically the last person with whom she wanted to talk.

  “How long are we supposed to wait?” Dodge asked. He’d been pacing by the door for ten minutes, muttering to himself, and that made her nervous. The muttering, more than the pacing.

  “Isn’t patience a virtue, Pastor?” Rule asked, hoping to distract the man from wearing down a circular path in the linoleum.

  “Ugh.” Dodge rolled his eyes so hard his whole head swiveled around like a bobble-head figure. “That’s not from the Bible. It’s a fifth century poem.”

  “Well,” she said. “It shoulda been in the Bible.” She wasn’t sure why she was egging the man on. Probably because she needed to release some tension. She didn’t feel like she could be serious with him, and he was an easy target.

  Dodge turned to her. “‘Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.’ Romans 12:12. That’s just one of many actual Biblical references to patience.”

  “In that case, Pastor, I don’t see you smilin’, or prayin’, or—”

  “I haven’t stopped praying, Sheriff.”

  So that’s what he’s been doing, she thought, and decided to give him a break. While her faith was about as solid as a Jell-O block, she appreciated that he was putting his to work on their behalf. Of course, she had no idea what he was praying for, but he was a good man. Despite his propensity to cry Devil, Dodge had done a lot of good for the town over the years, and he had helped keep people rooted during the tough times that had predated her reign in the town. In a way, the pair of them kept the town in order using a combination of the world’s law and God’s law. He wrote prayer requests. She wrote tickets. He carried a Bible. She carried a gun, and cuffs, and mace, and a—well, she liked to think she was prepared for the end times Dodge preached about regularly.

  A shadow bounced back and forth on the windows of the station’s front double doors. Someone was running up the steps. She sat up, for some reason expecting a screaming panicked person. Instead, it was Griffin. He yanked open the outer door, stepped through the foyer, opened the second set of doors and entered the office with a confidence she wished she felt.

  Dodge glanced at Griffin, gave him a once over and stepped back. “You have a gun?” He looked at Rule and pointed at Griffin. “He has a gun.” The words came out as part declaration, part warning, like Griffin might go on a shooting spree. Rule half expected Dodge to dive for cover, but this was Griffin and not the Devil, so he stood his ground, waiting for Rule’s response.

  “He’s also got a permit to carry that gun,” she said, deflating Dodge’s inflating anxiety balloon. “And if h
e didn’t bring it, I was going to give him one.”

  This surprised both men until she reached down to the desk, picked up a circular deputy’s badge and tossed it across the office. The circle-encased star looked like some kind of Japanese weapon as it spun through the air, but Griffin had no trouble catching it.

  He held the badge up. “You sure about this?”

  “If anyone comes in here while we’re gone, they’re going to feel better seeing that badge on your chest.”

  “People here know me,” he said. It wasn’t necessarily a protest. More of a clarification.

  “It’s all about marketing. Perceptions. If you need to make a call, that badge will make people listen faster than the gun on your hip or your good reputation.”

  “If they don’t listen to me, they’ll have to answer to you, is that it?” Griffin smiled, and Rule joined him.

  “Exactly.” She waved him over. “Did you find the phone?”

  “Needs to be charged,” he said.

  “Don’t you need to swear him in or something?” Dodge asked, taking a circuitous route to the side of her desk, opposite of where Griffin now stood.

  Rule grunted. It was a technicality. She trusted Griff, and that was good enough for her. “Do you swear?” she asked him.

  “All the time,” he replied.

  She smiled at Dodge. “Good enough for me.”

  Griffin crouched by her desk and plugged the phone’s charger into the surge protector, which was zip-tied to the desk leg. He attached the charger to the phone and was happy to see the screen light up green. “You know what,” he said. “I think we can use it while it’s plugged in.”

  He handed the phone to Rule. She looked at the numbers, wondering who to call. FBI? Homeland? NASA? The damn White House? She opted for the State Police, punched in the number and lifted the phone to her ear. It shrieked at her, a wailing cry so loud that she yanked the phone away from her ear and dropped it on the desk.