The Brotherhood of the Wheel

by R. S. Belcher

  “What phone call?” Keegan asked.

  “The one from a superior, or someone way, way, way up the food chain that instructs you to drop the charges and let them go, no questions asked.”

  “You kidding me, right?” Keegan said, crossing his arms. “That punk Sinclair that’s with Aussapile—he opened fire with a goddamned machine gun on a street full of Atlanta PD. Then wrecked about a half-dozen cars in a high-speed pursuit. There is no way in hell they’re going anywhere but to arraignment and then, most likely, remanded until trial.”

  Dann sighed and sat down on the ratty couch. It was the source of the cigarette-smoke smell, and reeked vaguely of old farts. He imagined this was a crash room for detectives who couldn’t head home yet because they were on a hot forty-eight-hour run to close a homicide, waiting to interrogate a suspect who was being processed downstairs, or waiting on the lab or the crime-scene guys for some tiny crumb that would allow them to close a case. This nasty couch was probably the next best thing to heaven if you were that beat. It was lumpy but soft. He groaned a little as he settled into it.

  “When I met Jimmie Aussapile, I thought he was the Natchez Trace Parkway Killer. I was wrong. He helped the bureau and the Mississippi State Police close that case, though. I was going to hang him out to dry for being some kind of vigilante, but then I got the call, and I let him go. A few years later, I ran into him again, sitting in a holding cell after getting mixed up with a series of murders in New Mexico. Victims were being found off Route 375 in the Franklin Mountains State Park, mostly men. Aussapile said it wasn’t a serial killer, at least not a mortal one. Said it was something called a Cegua, some kind of Mexican monster that ambushes travelers on lonely back roads—has the body of a woman and the head of a horse’s skull.”

  Keegan laughed. “You’re shitting me, right?”

  Dann’s face was placid. He gave a small smile, as if remembering a private joke, and shrugged. “I know, I know, but the murders stopped. The National Parks guys and the local PD were going to hoist Aussapile up by his balls—”

  “But then they got this mythical phone call,” Keegan interrupted, a grin on his broad face. “Maybe it was from some guy with the body of a dolphin and the face of a horse’s ass.” The detective laughed.

  Dann mustered a chuckle. “I know how it sounds,” he said. “But every time I hear the name Jimmie Aussapile a very weird murder case related to my task force gets closed shortly thereafter. And that makes it worth a trip out here.”

  There was a knock at the door. Another, younger detective in a sweat-stained button-down and shoulder holster poked his head inside the room. “Cap, you got a call on line three.” The detective’s head slid from view and the door shut. Keegan’s face dropped, while Dann’s remained as serene as the Buddha’s.

  Twenty minutes later, Dann walked back into the interrogation room. “You and your two friends are being cut loose,” he said. “Your luck holds for another day, cowboy. You knew that was going to happen, so why did you really ask for me down here?”

  “I was serious about the Pagan,” Jimmie said. “I’m going to find him and bring him down. I need help. I need to know what you know about him.”

  “Why not just have your hacker buddies plunder our network again?” Dann asked as he sat down.

  Jimmie shook his head. “Believe it or not, there are channels I have to go through, too,” he said. “And, just like any other organization, we don’t always play so nice with one another. That kind of hack requires more juice and more time than I got. That’s why I asked you to come—because I know that, to you, saving lives is more than just an equation on some damned spreadsheet.”

  “Saving lives?” Cecil said, leaning forward. “Whose lives?”

  “We got put onto the Pagan by that dead man you found in that hotel room—Mark Stolar,” Jimmie said. “He was a kidnap victim from Louisiana, along with his journalist buddy, Dewey Rears. The Pagan killed Rears, sacrificed him. He still has two college students from Kansas, and he plans to kill them next. Not to mention a hell of a good state cop from Louisiana that’s gone missing, too, chasing the son of a bitch.”

  “The Pagan has been sacrificing his victims since he first got on the bureau’s radar in the fifties,” Dann said. “Always near highways, always on traditional Wiccan holidays. He always leaves a mark carved on them somewhere, the same mark. That detail has been kept out of the press for over fifty years. We tried to keep the sacrificial angle out, too, but it got leaked in the late seventies.”

  “So no copycat would know about the symbol,” Jimmie said, leaning across the table, his voice low, “but the symbol kept popping up, didn’t it, Cecil? For over fifty years?”

  Dann nodded. “Yes, it did. But the logical answer is the symbol got leaked. Damned if we’ve ever been able to confirm that, though. Cops hate weird shit, Jimmie. They like things that have boxes to check on a report form. The Pagan has been a boil on the butt of the bureau and a lot of other law-enforcement agencies for decades. It’s high weirdness.”

  “Can you show me the symbol?” Jimmie asked. Dann sighed and slipped a small notebook and a pen from his jacket pocket. He drew the mark and slid it across to the trucker. It was circle with a crescent above it, barely touching the circle—points out. It was the same symbol Lovina had told him and Heck about on the road to Memphis—the same symbol found on the website where Karen Collie, Shawn Ruth Thibodeaux, and their friends had seen the video of the strange rite in the woods, the shadowy man with antlers.

  “Our cryptography unit out at Langley,” Dann said, “says that the symbol is pagan, that it represents—”

  “The Horned Man,” Jimmie interrupted.

  “Yeah,” Dann said, looking up from the piece of paper to the trucker’s face. “The embodiment of the masculine aspects of nature. Yeah.”

  “Cecil, did the Pagan ever kill anyone in Kansas?” Jimmie asked. “Maybe in or near a place called Four Houses, Kansas?”

  “Never heard of it,” Dann said, as he tapped his smartphone and accessed the Justice Department’s database. “Here we go … one victim authenticated—his first discovered, in fact. June May Hollinger, nineteen. Her remains were found by a highway-construction crew near Lebanon, Kansas, on May 3, 1957. Her body had been covered with soil, and the police were certain the killer expected her to be found, since the crews working on U.S. 281 were headed right to where the body was dumped. She was the first one to bear the Horned Man’s mark. Historically and chronologically, the Pagan’s first victim.”

  “And his only one in Kansas,” Jimmie said. “Thank you, Cecil. I owe you big.”

  “You owe me an answer,” Dann said, putting away his phone. “Why are you and this … whatever the hell it is you work for, contacting me? You know, sooner or later someone’s going to insist that I bring you in, bring you down. And I’ll have to, Jimmie, I’ll have to.”

  “I understand,” Jimmie said, standing. “Maybe that’s when you’ll get your answer. I need a few more things from you, Cecil, and I’m sorry to ask, but I got no one else.”

  Dann sighed. “Go ahead,” he said.

  “I need you to check out George Norse, the broadcaster,” Jimmie said.

  “You mean the guy who does Paranormal America Live—the TV show? My wife loves that shit,” Dann said.

  “Yeah,” Jimmie said. “Mine, too. He’s here in Atlanta. The Pagan made Stolar act as a courier for him before he killed him. Stolar gave Norse something from the Pagan, something the asshole wanted Norse to have. Can you find out what it was?”

  “Sure,” Dann said. “Done. Might even get the wife an autograph in the process.”

  “And if anything goes bad,” Jimmie said, “I’d appreciate it if you could tell my wife and little girl—”

  “Stop that, right now,” Dann said. “You are staying alive until I get my answers, Aussapile, so shut your piehole. Now, get going.”

  * * *

  Jimmie’s truck sped down I-75, headed out of Atlan
ta. It was sixteen hours to Lebanon. Heck’s motorcycle was strapped and chained to the back of the cab, and the biker and Max were riding along with him. Max was in the passenger seat, while Heck sat behind and between them on a foldable bench seat, eating a bag of chips. Skynyrd’s “Simple Man” was playing softly on the cab’s sound system.

  “Jail was nothing like I expected it to be,” Max said, almost cheerfully, as she typed on her tablet. “It was so … clean, and the officers were so … polite.” Jimmie and Heck traded glances but said nothing. “Well, if the gang at the Wednesday Night Bookclub and Whovian Appreciation Society could see me now—booked, fingerprinted! I’m an ex-con now, right? I’ve been on the inside.”

  “We’re just lucky she didn’t get a jailhouse tattoo,” Heck said. “So, tell me where the hell we’re going, and how does it help us find Lovina and the incredible disappearing dirtbag?”

  “Max, did you find anything on Four Houses?” Jimmie asked.

  “Nothing definite,” the professor said, scanning the page on her tablet. “Some historical references, indicating a frontier trading post and fort, but, historically, it seems not to be anywhere near where we’re going. It also says the place was abandoned after only a few years.”

  “So Karen Collie and Mark Stolar are both talking about a place that’s not real,” Jimmie said. “A place on no maps—that exists and doesn’t exist. That sound familiar to you at all, Max?”

  Max paled a little and looked up from the tablet. “Metropolis-Utopia,” she said softly.

  Jimmie nodded. “Yep,” he said. “And that makes me think we’re dealing with viamancy.”

  “Agreed,” Max said, “which is fortuitous, because I’ve been developing some theories about that very subje—”

  “Okay,” Heck said, waving a hand and cutting Max off. “What the hell are you guys talking about? I can follow about every third word of this. Me caveman, okay? Does all this shit have to do with Lovina and Captain Puckernut vanishing into thin air?”

  “Yes,” Jimmie and Max said together.

  “Good,” Heck said. “Now, with very small words, spoken very slowly, talk to the caveman.”

  “The best we can figure,” Jimmie said, “the Pagan used viamancy to cut out. Then it looks like Lovina used it, too, to follow him.”

  “Viamancy?” Heck asked crumpling his empty chip bag.

  “Viamancy involves the bending of space and the altering of perception,” Max said. “In relation to the Road.”

  “You probably heard it called ‘road magic,’ Heck,” Jimmie said. “Folks who got the knack for it are usually called road witches.”

  “Oh yeah, shit, I heard of that,” Heck said. “Witches supposed to be able to make a short ride go on forever, or you blink and you’re there. Stretch a gallon of gas to cross a desert, or make a full tank go empty in the middle of nowhere. Hell, I heard a witch can make you fall asleep driving or keep you going longer than a bottle of yellow jackets.”

  Jimmie nodded, looking out into the sunset, the sky smeared with ocher, crimson, and saffron. “Some folks got the gift,” he said. “They can listen to the Road and whisper back to it. I think Karen Collie had a touch of it. Apparently, Lovina does, too. But viamancy takes a toll on most who practice it. They go kind of crazy.”

  “Crazy?” Heck said.

  “Most of them end up disappearing,” Jimmie said. “One day they just … aren’t there anymore.”

  “They end up in the city, the city of the viamancers,” Max said. “The city that is everywhere and nowhere. According to the myths, it’s the city you see whenever you’re bending space—working road magic, if you will.”

  “The city of the mad,” Jimmie said. “The city at the center of everything. Metropolis-Utopia.”

  “And you think this Four Houses is like this city of whack jobs,” Heck said. “Not really there.”

  “Yeah,” Jimmie said. “Unfortunately.”

  The road slid under them, and they glided through the early-evening traffic. They were all silent for a long time. They were nearing Nashville. Max was napping, and when Jimmie looked back Heck looked as if he’d conked out as well. Jimmie heard the opening to the Clapton song playing on his cell and tapped the answer button. It was Layla.

  “Hi, baby,” he said softly. “How is everybody?”

  “We’re okay,” Layla said. “You sound worn out, baby. You headed to the job?”

  “No, baby,” Jimmie said with a sigh. “I’m still on that other thing.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “What,” Jimmie said. “What’s going on, baby?”

  “It’s nothing, honey,” Layla said. “How are you and Heck—”

  “Layla, tell me,” Jimmie said. There was a long pause on the line. The highway filled the emptiness with the noises of motion and velocity.

  “We got a call from the mortgage folks,” she said. “It’s no big deal, baby. They do it all the time when we’re a little late.”

  “Shit!” Jimmie said. “Shit, shit, shit! I forgot, baby—”

  “It’s okay, honey,” Layla said. “It’s not like you ain’t got other things on your mind. I talked to them, and it’s okay. We’ll make do, baby. We always do, don’t we?” He could hear her smile in her voice, but he could hear the thin quaver of stress there as well.

  “I’m sorry, baby. I’ll take care of it, I’ll get it paid. I promise.” In his mind, he was doing the math—he was already late to pick up the load, make the run, pay the mortgage. He also figured those college kids had maybe a day left to live, if they weren’t already dead. Whatever this Pagan guy was up to had something to do with screwing up the universe—the whole damned universe. That all seemed abstract, vague, and pale compared with the mundane clarity of a collection call or a pink envelope in the mailbox labeled “URGENT NOTICE.”

  “The baby’s squirming,” she said. “He hears his daddy.”

  “Tell him I’m on my way and that I’m making sure he’s got a house to come home to.”

  “He knows, baby,” Layla said. “Please stay focused and stay alive, Jimmie. We can get through anything, as long as we’re together, honey. I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” he said. “I’m damned lucky to have a woman like you.”

  “Yes,” she said, laughing, “you are. I’m proud of you, baby. Be careful. Bye.”

  “Bye, baby.” Jimmie hung up the phone.

  “Power bill or rent?” It was Heck’s voice quiet behind him.

  “Mortgage,” Jimmie said.

  “That sucks,” he said. “You got a run to pay for it?”

  “Yeah,” Jimmie said. “But I’m about to fuck that up, running around chasing damned teleporting serial killers and Black-Eyed Kids.”

  “You could just say, ‘Hell with it,’” Heck said. “Not your problem, man.”

  Jimmie glanced over his shoulder for a second. “It is my problem. I caught this, and it’s mine to see through. And if you don’t understand that, slick, then I’m going to tell you right now, you won’t hack it with the Brethren.”

  “It more important than your kids, than your old lady?” Heck asked.

  “No,” Jimmie said. “Not exactly. Look, you were in the Corps, right?”

  “Yeah,” Heck said. For a horrible eternity of a second, the laughing fire was in Heck’s mind, burning his screaming friends. It was what he always remembered first whenever he thought about being over there.

  “We had a job to do,” Jimmie said. “It was to protect our own, our families. We did it for them. This is like that, but even more so. How many lives has the Pagan ruined, ended? How many families has he destroyed? There are two kids out there right now, scared and wondering if they’re ever going to see home again. What if it was my little girl? My son? I’m supposed to go home, plop my fat ass down on the couch? Drink a few beers, watch TV? Pagan’s my responsibility now. I have to see this through.”

  “I was so focused on doing the job, getting it done, I missed Ale dying,”
Heck said. “I regret that. I fucking regret it a lot. He was the closest thing I ever got to a dad, and he’s gone. There were things I wish I had said, had the chance to say, even if I punked out and didn’t. Family’s important, all I’m saying. It’s the first duty.”

  Jimmie didn’t say anything for a few miles. He seemed distracted, maybe even a little shaken. “The last time I talked to Ale he was damned proud of you,” he finally said. “He understood. He may not have been your flesh-and-blood dad, but he damned well thought he was, Hector.”

  “Thanks,” Heck said. He cleared his throat. “Okay, man. Well, I’m with you, come what may. You guys can crash at my house … well, my mom’s house. But she won’t mind, she digs on babies—unless, of course, they’re me.”

  Jimmie laughed. “You might regret that invite.”

  Heck looked over at Max, curled up with her arms wrapped about her legs, her eyes closed. “She’s turned out to be a damned sight tougher than she looks, hasn’t she?”

  “Yeah,” Jimmie said. “Tough enough. Saved our asses back at that hotel.”

  “So where we headed, chief?” Heck asked. “Four Houses? The town that isn’t a town?”

  “Yep,” Jimmie said. “If our professor’s theory she keeps jawing about has any traction.”

  “It does,” Max said, her eyes still closed. A grin slowly spread across her face, and she yawned. “I’m going to prove it, too. And you’re welcome. I’ve never saved anyone’s … um, ass, before. This has been a day of firsts.”

  “Playing possum? Jimmie asked.

  Max smiled, rubbing her eyes. “Only for a little while,” she said. “Didn’t want to interfere with your male-bonding moment.”

  “Fess up?” Jimmie said. “What, exactly, have you been working on, Doc?”

  Max sat up, crossed her legs, and hugged her knees. “We’re going to get to Four Houses the same way Lovina and the Master of the Hunt did—by viamancy, by bending space.”

  “You’re suddenly a road witch?” Jimmie said.