Stitches (Insatiable Series Book 5)

by Patrick Logan

  At best, cleanup of the rubble from the estate that had been burned to the ground had been haphazard. At worst, it was negligible, dangerous even.

  There were piles of charred wood off to one side, a makeshift tipi. Beside this was a small mound of shattered bricks, and a toilet of all things, which, surprisingly, was apparently whole.

  The rest of the lawn was littered with debris and refuse, not that much unlike a miniature landfill.

  At least they filled in the foundation, he mused, his eyes skirting across the brown earth whose perimeter made an outline that construed an outline of a house, if drawn by a child with a thick crayon.

  When he had first arrived, Carter had been surprised that there hadn’t been police tape cordoning off the area, given that it was a lawsuit waiting to happen. The only sign that the police had actually been there was a small sign planted four feet from what he assumed had once been a front porch.

  Askergan County Sheriff’s Department.

  Land condemned.

  Trespassers will be prosecuted.

  Hardly sufficient to keep curious minds at bay.

  But there were other factors at play here. Based on the stories that Carter had heard, there could have been buried treasure here, and people would have stayed away.

  Carter wasn’t from Askergan, he had been born in neighboring Pekinish, and it had been many years since he had been in the area at all. Still, he knew that the place had always been one of superstition, of folk tales run astray, fears of Bloody Mary and Candyman lore.

  Carter had left due to… circumstances, one that necessitated he stay away. But things had changed, and he found himself back here, to a place that he vowed never to return.

  Call it intuition, coincidence, divine intervention, if you will, but Carter had returned just in time for Askergan’s transition, an ugly caterpillar that was ready to blossom into a beautiful butterfly.

  And it was up to him to fatten that caterpillar before its rebirth.

  Acquiring the people’s trust as a pastor had been much easier than either he or Pike could have hoped—desperate people seeking desperate answers ironically sought the one institution that failed to offer any— and now he was part of the way there. After he dealt with the pesky problem that was Walter Wandry, and then the cartels, and was instituted as Mayor, well the holy trinity would be complete.

  A smile crossed his face, and he stared into the distance, overlooking the ruins, and noted a collapsed embankment toward the back of the property.

  Where the culvert was blown to smithereens, he thought absently.

  He took several steps onto the lawn, which was burnt, either from the fire or from simple neglect after so many scorching summers, and then wiped a bead of sweat from his brow absently.

  At first blush, it seemed a mistake to build his new church on this plot of all places, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.

  This place was a tangible reminder of the county’s fears, of their past. Conquer it, bring people back here, and the church wouldn’t be Askergan’s newest institution, but he would.

  Askergan County is due for an upgrade…a modernization of sorts. And what better way to let them know than to remove what is left of the infamous Wharfburn Estate, and rebuild it into a place of worship? A hell turned heaven, right here in Askergan.

  Heaven on Earth.

  A smile crossed his face, one that he tried to suppress, in order to avoid revealing any of his inner machinations.

  But he couldn’t help it; his thoughts had been so poetic and prophetic, that he was simply helpless to keep his expression neutral.

  Yes, a new Modern County; a Modern County that I oversee.

  Father Carter Duke, still smiling, turned around and faced the thirty or so people that had come with him today. Their faces were a mixture of fear, confusion and just plain distaste.

  But they had followed him here, further validation of the risk he had taken.

  Carter adjusted his white collar, then held his hands to his parishioners. Then he cleared his throat and spoke loud and clear, cutting through the warm summer air.

  “Some of you might be asking yourself, what are we doing here? Why have we come here, of all places?”

  Several people murmured amongst themselves, but Carter calmed them with his hands.

  “I welcome you here today not by accident, but because it is time that Askergan moves on. It’s time that Askergan comes out of the dark… out of the shadow of drug dealers, of crime, of the infestation that this place gripped it for so long. We are here on purpose, to make a point, a stand against all of the injustice that Askergan has suffered over the past six or seven years.”

  Father Carter raised his hands as he spoke, while at the same time allowing his smile to grow. As predicted, the faces of the people in the crowd started to change as well, subconsciously mimicking his own energy, his excitement.

  “Are you ready for a new Askergan? For a Modern County?” he demanded, his hands over his head now.

  He didn’t need a pulpit, a stage, an auditorium. All he needed was himself, his charisma.

  Oh how far you have come from making counterfeit dollar bills. Mom would be so proud.

  Someone cheered, and Carter encouraged him by nodding. What followed next was predictable to the seasoned conman.

  Others joined in.

  “Now let us all work together to build a better Askergan! And it all starts here—right here—with us building a new place of worship! Let us show the rest of the world that Askergan is not to be pushed over, to be taken advantage of, to being infested with vermin any longer!”

  Father Carter ended with a fist clenched high over his head, and it was all he could do not to chuckle as this action was reflected in the thirty-some cheering people that stood before him.

  Yes, things are going to change around here.

  There had been a time, many years ago, when Carter, then Chris Davis, had thought that he had made a decision that was destined to change his life.

  In every person’s life, there is a moment—just one moment—when they are forced to make a decision, his mother used to tell him.

  Carter clenched his fist even tighter.

  Sorry, mom. You were wrong; there isn’t just one moment, but many. And this is one such moment.

  Chapter 12

  There were four men in the basement of the police station again, much like they had been when the crackers had launched themselves against the windows upstairs. Only this time, Nancy wasn’t there with them and neither was Mrs. Drew, facts that bore heavily on Sheriff White.

  Instead, Deputies Coggins, Williams, and Reggie and the Sheriff were all standing around a table, the blueprint to Sabra’s estate laid out before them. Sheriff White had just finished telling them about the sewer pipe, and yet their expressions did not hold the same excitement that was laboring on his tired face.

  “Don’t you see? This is our way in. We travel here, get into the sewer pipes in Askergan, then head east until we are directly beneath his house.”

  It was Coggins of all people that lobbed the inaugural shot of skepticism.

  “Paul, there are only four of us—and Dirk and the priest’s bodyguard, if we can find them—and how many of them? Three dozen? Fifty? All armed to the teeth… even if we can get close, how can we possibly take them on?”

  Sheriff shook his head.

  “Don’t you see? We can sneak in,” he traced a line to the large chamber near the center of the house. “Dirk told us that this is where the Crab likes to stay, where he likes to get high. I figure we can break in through the tunnels and into this room and get back out again without them even knowing.”

  Reggie grimaced.

  “I fucking hate rats,” he grumbled.

  “Nobody fucking likes rats,” Williams replied quickly.

  Paul shot them both a look, and Reggie spoke up again.

  “I mean, I’m no expert, but that seems like a helluva long way to get to the cent
er of the mansion without being seen. And with all those men? One shout, one shot fired, and we’ll be swarmed.”

  “He’s right,” Coggins chimed in. “And you know after… after…” he caught himself, “We know that they won’t hesitate to shoot us, cops or not. And what about the girls? About Corina and Alice? Are we supposed to drag them out, too? And why would we assume that they would even be in the same place as the Crab? What if they are in another place entirely?”

  Sheriff White stared blankly at his friend for several seconds without saying anything, a knot forming in his gut.

  He was right of course; Paul had been blinded by the prospect of an easy way in. And while that still seemed viable, the rest of the plan was garbage; utter garbage.

  But what other options did they have?

  “Fuck,” he whispered, slumping back in his chair. “Fuck.”

  “We should wait for SWAT, FBI.”

  Paul could contain his anger no longer.

  “Wait? How long do you want us to wait, Coggins? You’re the one that suggested just going in there, guns blazing. You’ve heard—we’ve all heard the rumors by now, right? A week; we have a week before they send another head. Goddamnit, Coggins—they sent Nancy’s head in a fucking bag! A fucking bag!”

  Coggins averted his eyes, and Paul felt a pang of guilt deep down in the pit of his stomach, intertwining with the knot in his intestines.

  “Maybe… maybe it can work, though,” Reggie said, drawing their attention again. “I mean, if we had a distraction, if we could somehow draw the bikers outside…” he let his sentence trail off, and Deputy Williams continued for him.

  “…then we might be able to get in and out with the girls out—fuck the Crab, leave him to rot—before they even know it.”

  Now it was Coggins’s turn to pipe up.

  “A distraction? How are we supposed to distract a whole gang of bikers?”

  “Father Carter’s men,” Reggie said, snapping his fingers at the same time.

  Sheriff White shook his head, but Reggie continued, ignoring his response.

  “We can get them to—I dunno, picket—out front, cause a real stink and—”

  “No,” Paul said simply, suddenly regretting calling this meeting altogether.

  Coggins shrugged.

  “We need to get Dirk in here, get him to tell us, or find out, the most likely place that the Crab is keeping the girls.”

  “No,” Paul said again. His deputies’ apprehension had suddenly morphed into excitement of a high school cheer leading squad.

  No, this is all wrong.

  “Where is he, anyway?” Williams asked.

  “No!” Paul suddenly roared, rising to his feet. “No fucking way am I putting all those townspeople in danger. For fuck’s sake, these bikers, these fucking retards that call themselves the Skull Krushers, you think that they will hesitate to fire into a crowd? You think because they are picketing, that they will be safe? Use your fucking heads, people! The bikers will just blow them away. They came right here, to the police station for fuck’s sake, to throw a fucking decapitated head! Nancy’s head! How many are we going to have to sacrifice to save two women? Yes, Corina is one of our own, and Alice means everything to you, Coggins, I get that. Fuck, I really get that. But think about it… how many of the priest’s devoted followers are going to have to die? How many? Five? Ten? Fifty?”

  The room went silent, Sheriff White’s words hanging in the air like a foul smell.

  “This is shit.” He finished with a sharp exhale. “Shit. This whole fucking County has gone to shit. And it’s all my fucking fault.”

  Coggins’s eyes whipped up, and Paul was surprised to see that they were red and moist.

  “Hey—”

  But the door to the room suddenly burst open, cutting him off before he could get started. Coggins turned first, drawing his pistol at the same time. But when they saw who it was, he quickly lowered it again.

  “Jared?” he nearly gasped.

  Sheriff watched as the pale man with a scraggly beard—Jared Lawrence, of all people—came through the door first, followed by Pike. The man adjusted his bow-tie and then said, “We have the perfect distraction, and it doesn’t involve a single parishioner,” he said simply. “Father Carter has set everything up.”

  PART II - Sidekicks and Enemies

  Chapter 13

  “…and so I compel you, do not revel in your personal sorrow; rather, rejoice in the time that you all had to spend with Nancy Whitaker before she was taken from us far too soon. Please, if anyone would like to say a few final words before we lower the casket, feel free to approach.”

  Sheriff White was grateful that the sun shone brightly up above, justifying his aviator sunglasses. Dana Drew had taught him all those years ago that he was not to show emotion while in uniform. In private, among family, friends, he struggled to open up. But here, among his citizens, and especially at a time like this, he was reluctant to show any form of emotion.

  What Askergan needed now was a fearless leader that would take them out of the darkness. The problem was, Paul was beginning to think that his position was becoming usurped by the man at the makeshift pulpit.

  And when he becomes mayor? How much control will he have then?

  Sheriff White cleared his throat and made a move toward the priest.

  It pained him that they had to have a closed casket, given that Nancy had been such a public figure. It was also a shame that the only thing they were burying in the ground was her head. But Paul had had no choice; he needed the funeral to take place as soon as possible, in order to minimize the distraction, the likelihood of anything happening.

  Of eclipsing the one week mark, of getting another decapitated head lobbed into the mourning crowd.

  All of his deputies had attended, save Dirk, who still hadn’t checked in. Paul was beginning to consider the possibility that he had flipped again and had gone back to serve the Crab.

  But there was nothing he could do about that now.

  As he started to walk toward the casket, he quickly glanced around, remembering how Dana had continually stressed that one of the most important skills of a Sheriff, or any police officer for that matter, was to observe.

  The thought simultaneously made him want to laugh, cry, and vomit.

  How fucking stupid have I been? How completely unobservant? Did I spend the last six years with my eyes sewn shut?

  The truth was, the County had been well on its way to shit even before the crackers had infested the place, and especially before Walter had started his transformation.

  The crime, the drugs—the fucking drugs—an entire County desperate for answers from a storm well melted.

  Paul feigned a cough and while he was covering his mouth, he wiped away a fat tear that had spilled out from beneath his sunglasses.

  It was no secret that Nancy wasn’t the most loved of Askergan citizens; her aggressive, in-your-face reporting style had soured many, and made an enemy of some. Still, as the Sheriff approached the bipartisan man who he had hired to read the eulogy—not a priest; Nancy and the church had never seen eye to eye—he couldn’t help but think that the crowd was particularly thin.

  He wasn’t the only one heading to the casket, several others had already said their final respects.

  And not a single one of them made the sign of the cross, whispered or mumbled anything that he might consider a prayer.

  How odd…

  Paul looked around again, and it suddenly hit him.

  Neither Father Carter nor any of his followers had attended the funeral.

  Sheriff Paul White was no genius, but he was smart enough to know that something was going on.

  Glancing to his left, he realized that Coggins, dressed in full uniform, had made his way to his side.

  “You notice something?” Paul whispered.

  “Yeah,” Coggins replied. His voice was gruff, and his breath sour. Paul considered that the man had started drinking again, and an admo
nishment crept toward his lips.

  He shunned it.

  Like with Dirk, complaining or chastising would only serve to drive a rift between them. And, besides, Coggins had a right to drink, what with his girlfriend being held hostage by a psychopath. A psychopath with a very deadly pet at his disposal.

  His thoughts drifted to what he had said to the pathologist after her discovery that they could somehow be animated by the stimulant properties of alcohol.

  “Burn them. Burn them all.”

  “What about the bodies?”

  “Burn them, too. Send them to Scarsdale Crematorium, and burn everything.”

  Coggins cleared his throat, and Paul turned his attention to his friend. The man indicated a large oak tree a hundred or yards or so away with his chin. The Sheriff followed his gaze, squinting to try to make out the details in the shadows generated by its thick canopy.

  He thought he could make out the glint of a bald head, a flicker of color.

  Mexican cartels.

  As if hearing his thoughts, Coggins nodded.

  “Bangers, two of them. Both packing.”

  A sour expression supplanted the grimace on the Sheriff’s face. Just the idea of working with the cartels was enough to make his guts roil, but the only alternative was using Father Carter’s parishioners.

  And that was out of the question.

  Pike’s half-assed explanation that the cartels were pissed about losing Sabra, and that they would help if it meant removing Walter, rang about as true as a flat-earther’s thesis. Shit, he could practically see the man’s nose growing as he recounted the story in the basement of the police station.

  Shit, even with Jared nodding along like some sort of bobble-head fused to a perpetual motion device, he nearly laughed at the absurdity of it all.

  The cartels only wanted one thing: money.

  Jared was solid; the man had proved as much when the crackers had attacked. And yet he was different now; no, Paul was no genius, and he was in no way disillusioned, but there was something else brewing here.