The People In The Woods

by Robert Brown

So, Nick did the only thing he could think of. He kicked out at Brett’s feet while making himself fall backwards.

  It worked. They fell over the edge together.

  They tumbled over one another. More shots rang out. A bush caught Nick’s leg and yanked him free of Brett’s grasp.

  Finally, he lay still. Nick was disoriented and in pain, but he struggled to his knees, only to fall down again because of the steepness of the slope. The staccato sound of gunfire continued above him, rising in pitch. He sat up, more carefully this time, and blearily looked around him. A small, slight figure staggered down the slope a little to the left of him, making it onto the path. A few feet directly below him, a shadow moved, rustling the bushes. Brett. Looking for his gun.

  By some miracle, Nick saw it first. It lay between them, caught on a rock.

  Nick dove for it, but the pain and loss of blood made his movements clumsy. He scrabbled down in a controlled fall, stopping only when he had almost gone past it.

  Brett saw where Nick had been headed and scrambled up the slope, reaching out.

  Nick lunged for the gun and grabbed it just as Brett slammed him into the earth.

  He jabbed the gun up to stick the muzzle beneath Brett’s chin.

  The cultist froze. Through a haze of pain, Nick heard him say, “I surrender.”

  Nick paused.

  “I surrender,” Brett repeated. “Throw me in jail for the rest of my life. Just don’t kill me.”

  Nick pulled the trigger and blew off the top of his head.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  One week later …

  “So, what’s next for you, Professor Upton? Will you stay in Republic?” asked the CBS reporter.

  Nick had answered all these questions so many times for so many reporters—the local networks and newspapers, CNN and FOX, BBC and Radio Japan—that he didn’t have to think of his answers anymore.

  Sitting under the harsh lights of the television studio, he replied, “Of course I’ll stay in Republic. This is my home. I’m putting down roots here. And there’s still a lot to be done. I’m pressuring the university to create a position of ombudsman to improve relations between the university and the town. We’ve been divided for far too long. I’d like to take the position myself, if the university allows me.”

  What he didn’t add was that Republic University had taken his advice, at least partially. A committee had decided to create the position of ombudsman, but it was going to someone from the administration building who had moved to Republic only in the previous year. The administration had told Nick that putting a faculty member who had killed some students in that role would be “too controversial.”

  “And is your daughter doing all right?”

  “Yes. She got through the fall with only a sprained wrist and some cuts and bruises.”

  Again, he didn’t tell the whole truth. Elaine had rallied remarkably well and had insisted on continuing with her play. The school was already a media circus, and they didn’t want curiosity seekers showing up. That night Nick, Cheryl, and all his new friends would be attending the school’s premiere of Arsenic and Old Lace.

  All except Wayne. The assistant manager at the feed mill had taken a bullet in the gunfight. He was in stable condition at the local hospital. The doctors predicted a slow but full recovery. The national reporters never asked about him. The local affiliates had, and they’d filmed a gripping bedside interview about his involvement in the fight. None of the national or international press had picked it up. They all wanted to talk to Nick, with his middle-class speech and mannerisms.

  Nick’s own wound was healing. His arm was in a sling. The camera operators liked to focus on it.

  “And how did they find out where she went to school?”

  “The police still aren’t sure. I might have been followed. Or perhaps there’s a clue in the videos they made. The cult taped everything.”

  Thank God. That got me off the hook for murder.

  Then came the final question, the kicker. It never varied much from reporter to reporter.

  “Do you think these cults are on the rise in America, Dr. Upton?”

  Nick envisioned several “hard-hitting documentaries” and “exposes” coming out in the next few months. He’d already had several requests to appear in them.

  “No,” he said flatly. “Such religious movements are rare. What is on the rise is our divisions as a society. Most faculty at Republic University know next to nothing about the town they live in and they couldn’t care less. I was one of them. The locals don’t know and don’t care what’s going on at the university. We’re seeing these fissures widening all over the country. I and the brave local residents who fought Brett Dawson and his followers will be working to bridge that gap.”

  The reporter shook his hand. They all did that. Nick presumed it was a way to show solidarity or take some sort of claim in his achievement.

  “Thank you, Professor Upton, for stopping this band of killers.”

  “We’re off the air,” the floor manager announced before Nick could point out that he hadn’t done it alone.

  The spotlights switched off and Nick relaxed. He took a sip of water. The reporter got up and started mingling with the crew. No one paid him any attention. He called Cheryl.

  “How did it go?” his wife asked.

  “Same as usual,” he sighed.

  “Then stop doing them. I know it wears you out.”

  “If I say no, they’ll show up at the house.” He’d learned that the hard way.

  “You still up for the play?” Cheryl asked.

  Nick smiled. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  He got up, shook hands with the floor manager, and left the studio.

  Clayton sat in the waiting room. Nick couldn’t drive with his arm in a sling, and Clayton and the guys were taking turns giving him rides.

  “How’d it go?” Clayton asked.

  “Same as always.” Other than the local media, no reporters wanted to talk to Clayton or any of the others. “Where’s Trisha?”

  Clayton made a face. “Went back to her parents.”

  “What? Why?”

  They headed out of the building. “The whole Satanism thing scared the shit out of her. She figured it was God’s punishment for leaving her parents. It’s a commandment to honor them, you know, even if they’re judgmental pieces of shit.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Clayton.”

  Clayton shrugged. “Yeah, well, plenty of fish in the sea. I’m miss them titties, though.”

  So will I.

  “So, no questions from Sheriff O’Connor about you and her?”

  “Nah, he’s turning a blind eye about all the stuff we did. Too many cameras pointing his way, I guess. And there’s an election coming up.”

  Nick laughed. “You know, I’ve never voted in the local elections. I think I’m going to have to start. Pity that Trisha won’t be at the play tonight. She sure fought well.”

  Clayton grinned. “Sure was a little tiger, wasn’t she? Here.” He handed Nick a hundred dollars. “Part of what I owe you. I’ll get you another hundred next pay day.”

  “Thanks.”

  They got into Clayton’s pickup. He didn’t start the engine immediately, but gripped the steering wheel, looking out over the parking lot.

  “How you been sleeping?” Clayton asked.

  “I’ve been taking my wife’s sleeping pills.”

  “Maybe I should get some,” Clayton whispered. “I keep thinking about them college kids. Brett was an animal. He deserved to die like a mad dog. But those others? They had the world. Money. Education. They could have written their own ticket, and they team up with somebody like him? I don’t get it.”

  Nick’s friends had gunned down the cultists without mercy. Not one had survived. Nick was still trying to figure out how he felt about that.

  He also had to figure out why those people had followed Brett. Their leader had obviously been unbalanced. Nick now fully bel
ieved the townies’ side of the story about what had happened with that girl down by the river. Brett had been unstable before, and his due punishment had pushed him over the edge. But why did the others follow? Why did people fight and die for David Koresh? Why did people drink poison for Jim Jones?

  “I don’t know, Clayton,” Nick said in all honesty.

  Clayton snorted. “Some egghead you are. How you going to write that book?”

  A New York publisher had rushed in on the media feeding frenzy and offered Nick a huge advance to tell the story of what had become known as the “Republic Witch Cult.” Nick planned to divide his advance between the family of Brice Edwards, the farmer who had been sacrificed, and the family of Kevin Lewis, the security guard who died defending Elaine’s school. Nick still felt guilty that he hadn’t even been close about the guy’s name. He was also going to pay the hospital fees for the woman who had been wounded on the highway.

  “I guess I have a lot of learning to do,” Nick admitted.

  Clayton fired up the engine. “First you got a lot of drinking to do. The boys are meeting at the Drunken Indian before we all go to the play.”

  “Thanks, but I should get back to Cheryl.”

  “She’s coming too. I invited her.”

  “How’d you get her number?”

  “She gave it to me when you had us all over for dinner. She’s probably on her way already.”

  “Oh God, what’s she going to say when she sees Dreams Cum True next door?”

  “Well, I was going to take us all over for some lap dances, but I guess we’ll have to skip that. But we gotta go to the Drunken Indian. Can’t pass up free drinks.”

  “Free drinks?”

  “Mike, the bar owner—you know, the one who always gave you the evil eye when you came in? He says we never have to pay at his place no more. We’re heroes there, bud.”

  “I wonder if we’re heroes enough to get him to change the name of his bar.”

  Clayton laughed as they pulled out of the parking lot.

  “Anything’s possible. You’re Jackson County’s honorary egghead now.”

  Nick laughed too. “I guess that’s not a bad thing to be.”

  About The Author

  Robert Brown is an author and former freelance journalist in is mid-forties from California. Having been born and raised in the UK he moved to the US as a teenager with his family.

  Robert moved back to the UK to pursue his dream to be a fulltime author. He lives in Liverpool with his wife and two children.

  Robert has always been intrigued by true crime which led in part to his previous career of a freelance journalist writing for local publications primarily about unsolved murders. It was obvious to Robert that his passion for this genre would lead to him writing his first book “Deadly Illusions” in 2017.

  Apart from writing Robert loves to spend time with his family and to indulge his other passion of the great outdoors. Having been raised in the UK it’s no surprise that Robert is also a keen anglophile which is also reflected in his writing.

  Robert has a unique writing style that uses both his UK and US backgrounds that creates stories that can be enjoyed by readers on both sides of the pond. Keep an eye out for further publications from Robert soon.

  Free Bonus Chapter of deadly illusions by Robert Brown

  She remembered applying for the job. She remembered meeting the strange man in the middle of the London streets, and she even remembered what he looked like, despite the mask that now concealed his face.

  What she didn’t remember was how she had gotten here.

  In her field of work, it was rare to come across malevolence. It was one of the truest art forms still alive. Her industry was full of genuine, creative performers with a rare passion for their work. The only downside was that their flair for theatrics often spilled over into their everyday personas.

  But this wasn’t theatrics – something sinister was unfolding before her. She remembered sitting in a chair in the middle of his rehearsal space. Then, suddenly, she felt a small prick against the back of her neck, as he told her she would.

  And then everything was gone. In her line of work, she often heard the term “a deep sleep” but such lines were never accurate. Very few people, if anyone, could cause people to fall into “a deep sleep” on command, and the participants who did succumb to such instructions were simply playing along.

  But she wasn’t playing along. This was real terror.

  In the confines of a gigantic wooden box, her torso had been strapped down to its base. Her arms and legs had been stretched as far as her joints could withstand. She felt as though they might tear from their sockets at any minute.

  Despite her wriggling, nothing came free. Her hands, feet and head all sprouted through purposely-cut holes in her place of imprisonment.

  And then her tormenter returned. He ran his hands gently over her feet. She began to jerk her body with as much force as she could muster but her tight restraints kept her glued in place.

  “Do you know what comes next?” he asked.

  It was an absurd question. She certainly knew what came next. In all other cases, the hands and feet sprouting outside the box would be fake, giving her the freedom to move around while maintaining a simple-but-effective illusion.

  However, something told her this wouldn’t be the case now.

  She didn’t respond. Instead, she burst into tears. Asking why he was doing this would be of no benefit to her. Even with the grotesque black rubber mask he wore over his head, she knew this man possessed the eyes of a psychopath.

  The masked man leaned toward the center of the box. From above, he pulled down a saw blade. The woman screamed in horror.

  To her surprise, the masked man removed the blade from the saw. However, her moment of relief quickly vanished when the blade he removed hit the ground. It barely made a sound. The blade was made of plastic.

  The woman’s eyes widened when the masked man pulled something from below her box-coffin. It was an almost exact replica of the one he’d just removed but something was slightly different.

  It was solid. It was heavy. When he placed it on top of her box, he did so with a thunderous clang.

  The blade was real.

  Thick, reinforced steel. He pulled the saw mechanism closer to himself and loaded the metal blade inside it. With his dead eyes resting on the woman’s squirming body, he backed away from her.

  “No, please,” she said through tears. “I can help you.”

  No words came in response. Instead, he moved out of sight.

  All she could see was a gigantic steel blade about 10 feet above her torso. It was perfectly placed above her mid-section. Usually, now would be the time when she would be safely out of harm’s way, preparing to give her audience the impression that she’d been horribly mutilated.

  The blade above her swiftly dropped. A deafening scream filled the air inside the man’s lair. It was the kind of scream that couldn’t be faked.

  More Books by Robert Brown

  Deadly Illusions: A Private Detective Crime Thriller

  Purity Pursuit: A Gripping Crime Thriller (Private Detective Heinrich Muller Crime Thriller Book 1)

  Beyond The Window: A Fast Paced Crime Thriller (Private Detective Heinrich Muller Crime Thriller Book 2)

  Stolen Heritage: Gripping Crime Thriller (Private Detective Heinrich Muller Crime Thriller Book 3)