The Nightmare Girl

by Jonathan Janz

  “It means his—”

  “I know what it means, dickweed. It just sounded funny, that’s all.” Copeland drank his coffee. “To answer your question, when we find out where he goes, we talk to both him and whoever he’s associating with. See if they know anything about the Hawkins murders.”

  “What if they lawyer up?”

  Copeland’s eyebrows rose. “‘Lawyer up’? Man, how many cop shows you been watching? Confederates. Lawyering up. It’s like I’m sitting here with Perry Mason.”

  “That show was before my time.”

  “Before my time too, asshole. How old you think I am?”

  Gentry’s car was pulling out of his drive.

  “I didn’t even see him come out,” Joe said.

  “That’s because you were too busy dazzling me with your cop show lingo.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Here we go,” Copeland said and guided the Acura onto the country road.

  They stayed a good ways back, knowing that in a town the size of Shadeland, they ran little risk of losing Gentry’s red Chevy Cobalt. Especially since the guy had added a spoiler and gold rims to the thing. Joe wondered if Gentry ever spent money on his wife and kids.

  The Chevy didn’t take the left turn into Shadeland, however, moving north instead in the direction of the next town over, a little hamlet called Ravana. Joe didn’t like that. He’d heard disturbing stories about the place. Stories about cults and other unsavory practices. There was even a wild rumor about vampires.

  He supposed it was only fitting that Gentry would be heading there.

  They hung back about a hundred yards or so, never venturing much closer. There was even less need for close pursuit out here in the country. Granted, it was possible that Gentry could clue into their presence and take a quick turn into one of the many forests or fields that framed the road, but Joe strongly suspected that Gentry had no idea they were back here, the guy probably listening to his music too loud and fantasizing about some woman. Maybe Joe’s wife.

  They followed for perhaps twenty minutes, neither one of them saying much. Joe felt his stomach coiling into a tense ball, but he felt excitement too. He badly wanted to attach Gentry to the rest of Sharon’s group. It would give him more reason to hate the guy.

  Not that he needed more reason.

  When the Chevy neared the right turn that would take him into Ravana, it instead hooked a left onto a densely wooded gravel road.

  “Careful,” Joe said.

  “Of what? Rocks hitting my exhaust pipe?”

  “Of him seeing us.”

  “That’s right,” Copeland said, preparing for the turn, “we gotta watch for all those confederates.”

  “You’re not gonna let that go, are you?”

  But rather than answering, Copeland nodded ahead. Joe turned and saw that the Chevy was slowing in front of what looked like a plain but rather large white farmhouse. There were several outbuildings behind it, what Joe first mistook for chicken coops and ferring houses.

  “Well, hell,” Copeland said in a wondering voice.

  “What? It’s just a farm.”

  Copeland gave a faint shake of the head. “It isn’t a farm. I think it’s a commune.”

  Joe opened his mouth to respond, but he realized it was as Copeland said. The buildings weren’t in immaculate shape, but they were better taken care of than chicken coops would be. They were bigger too.

  The ball of nervous tension in his gut calcified.

  No sooner had Gentry’s Cobalt pulled into the driveway than a short man stepped onto the front porch of the farmhouse. Even from a distance of more than a hundred yards there was something familiar about the guy.

  “That doesn’t look like the men you described,” Copeland said. “Ones on the bridge.”

  “That’s because it’s someone else.”

  Copeland looked at him. “You know the guy?”

  “I don’t know him, but I know who he is,” Joe said in a thin voice. “He’s the preacher who did Angie Waltz’s funeral.”

  Copeland let his little Acura crawl forward.

  “You gonna call for reinforcements?” Joe asked.

  “There you go again.”

  “What if the bastards are all there?”

  “Drink your coffee.”

  “I’m telling you,” Joe said, trying and failing to keep the panic out of his voice, “that tall bastard and the tattoo guy, they weren’t messing around on the bridge.”

  “You handled ’em all right.”

  “That was luck and adrenaline. I still can’t believe I got out of there alive.”

  Copeland rolled forward, the Acura moving inexorably closer to the farmhouse. Fifty yards away, and apparently neither Gentry nor the preacher had noticed them.

  “Can I at least have a gun?” Joe asked.

  “That’s the last thing you need.”

  Joe looked at him incredulously. “You told me to buy one.”

  “For home protection,” Copeland said, “not to take on Charlie Manson and his crew.”

  Shit, Joe thought, sinking back into the seat. “You really think they’re like Manson’s people?”

  “Who knows what they’re like?” Copeland said. “But for now we gotta assume these are some seriously dangerous confederates.”

  “You’re a dick.”

  Copeland just chuckled.

  At thirty yards away, the preacher finally spotted them.

  It was another several moments before Gentry turned also. As usual, Joe’s former right hand man appeared too wrapped up in whatever he was talking about to take notice of others’ social cues, Gentry gesturing frenetically about something or other, probably some married woman he had just masturbated to. Eventually, though, Gentry also saw them approaching, and his expression slipped from plain curiosity to extreme trepidation. When Copeland parked the Acura and climbed out, Gentry—likely taking in the police chief’s imposing girth—actually moved a couple steps toward the far end of the covered porch, as if seeking refuge. A moment after that, Joe got out and trailed Copeland up the flagstone walk.

  “Morning,” Copeland called.

  “Good morning, Chief,” the preacher said in the deep, resonant voice Joe remembered from the graveyard. The sound of it gave him chills. It was powerful, rumbling, full-throated. Yet something about it was oddly penetrating, like a sonic blade. The sound of the preacher’s voice seemed to vibrate in Joe’s head long after the man’s words had died.

  Copeland moved straight toward the preacher, who wore a short-sleeved black shirt and black trousers. Copeland grinned at the preacher, ignoring Gentry altogether. At least so far.

  “You know me, apparently, but I don’t know you.”

  “Grayman,” the short man said, a disconcerting smile splitting his face. “Patrick Grayman.”

  Patrick, Joe thought, remembering the name he’d been given the day those assholes had lured him to the bridge. It fit too well to be coincidence.

  Copeland’s manner changed. Had Joe remembered to give Darrell that detail? Yes, he realized, he had told Copeland about the nonexistent Patrick. Or the seemingly nonexistent Patrick. Because evidently Patrick did exist.

  He was looking at Joe now.

  “Why don’t you two come inside?” Grayman said. “I’ve just made some coffee.”

  Copeland put up a hand. “I’m afraid I’ve already had some, Reverend. I’m too fond of the coffee at the station to drink anything else.”

  Grayman’s smile didn’t falter. “I’m not a reverend, Chief Copeland. I’m not sure what gave you that idea.”

  Copeland shrugged. “Oh, it’s just something I heard.”

  Grayman fixed Joe with his sludgy brown eyes. “Your friend shouldn’t haunt funerals, Chief Copeland. He should at least have the decency to join those who
appreciate what Angela did.”

  Joe’s chest tightened. Copeland, too, seemed to hesitate.

  Gentry’s face stretched in a savage grin. “Thought you were smarter than us, didn’t you?” He shook his head, his grin an intaglio of loathing. “Jesus, I’m glad I don’t work for you anymore.”

  Copeland nodded. “You kept your willy in your pants, you might still have a job.”

  Gentry glared at Copeland murderously.

  But Grayman’s smile remained serene. Perhaps, Joe mused, that was precisely what was so troubling about it. The utter placidity of the man’s expression. He was clearly older than Joe. At least twenty years older. Yet there were very few wrinkles around the man’s eyes, few signs at all he had lived for six decades or more. So why, Joe wondered, did he put the man at sixty?

  Because, he now realized, if he examined his own impressions honestly, the conclusions made even less sense. Grayman had the skin of a man Joe’s age or younger, yet he couldn’t be that young. There was the hair loss, for one thing, and the knowing cast to the man’s muddy eyes. That kind of experience didn’t come to a man early in life. It was the kind of look, Joe thought, an extraordinarily sharp nursing home resident might wear, one whose body has broken down but whose mental facilities remain intact. Yet Grayman might not be that old. He might be…he might be…

  “Hey, Joe, you okay?” Copeland asked.

  Joe listed backwards, and was only prevented from tumbling off the porch by Copeland’s iron grip, which was cinched around the crook of Joe’s elbow. But it was still no good. His legs were liquefying and somewhere far off, Gentry was laughing. Copeland was saying something, sounding half nettled and half concerned, and Joe had time to think, Not what I came out here to do, and it was this thought that centered him, that brought him back to himself.

  He was stooped over, Copeland supporting him. He realized very little time had passed, ten seconds at the most, and Grayman hadn’t moved at all.

  Gentry, however, was staring down at him without pity. “Heat get to you, Joey?”

  “I’m fine,” Joe said and made himself stand upright. Copeland was eyeing him uncertainly, but Grayman looked on as though nothing much had happened. But Joe knew it had, knew Grayman had somehow…what? Bewitched him? Hypnotized him? It didn’t make any sense—the man hadn’t done anything—but Joe couldn’t shake the notion that Grayman had somehow inflicted the dizzy spell on him.

  Grayman asked, “Are you sure you don’t need to come in out of the heat, Mr. Crawford?”

  “It isn’t hot,” Joe muttered.

  Copeland was frowning at Joe. “We came out here to ask you some questions, Mr. Grayman.”

  “Is this about that poor old Hawkins couple?”

  Copeland stared at Grayman for a moment, perhaps detecting the same gloating undertone Joe had in the man’s deep voice.

  “That’s right,” Copeland said. “You wanna tell me how you knew that?”

  “Shadeland is a small town,” Grayman said. “And our home isn’t far away.”

  “Or maybe Mr. Gentry here had firsthand knowledge of the crimes,” Copeland said.

  Joe glanced at Copeland in surprise. He hadn’t expected such a direct approach. He certainly hadn’t expected Copeland to accuse Kevin Gentry of murder.

  “What a bunch of crap,” Gentry said. He addressed Grayman but gestured at Copeland. “This guy’s got it in for me. He and Joe here are buddies, and Joe’s still pissed off because his wife has the hots for me.”

  Joe tilted his head at Gentry. “You’re scared of them,” Joe said.

  Gentry’s expression went sullen. “The hell you talking about?”

  “You’re right to be scared,” Joe persisted. “You’re in over your head.”

  For the first time, Grayman’s composure seemed to slip a little. Nothing overt, just a slight crease between the eyes, but it was enough to tell Joe he’d hit close to the mark.

  “Kevin hasn’t the slightest reason to fear us, Mr. Crawford.”

  Joe grunted. “That’s because he follows your orders.”

  Grayman favored him with an indulgent smile. “I’m afraid you and Chief Copeland are too enamored with conspiracy theories. What is it precisely you think I’ve done?”

  “Not you,” Copeland said. “Your followers.”

  Grayman gave him a bemused smile and interlaced his fingers before him. “Followers? But Chief Copeland, you make me out like some sort of religious leader.”

  “You led the funeral ceremony,” Joe said. “You read that black mass.”

  Grayman looked pained. “Please, Mr. Crawford. You should hear yourself. Black mass? We are not Satanists, Zionists, Jehovah’s Witnesses. We’re least of all Christians.”

  “No kiddin’?” Copeland said. “I’d have thought those tattoos you all engraved on Harold’s forehead were straight out of Leviticus.”

  “We did no such thing, Chief Copeland. You sound to me like a man who’s desperate for a scapegoat.”

  Copeland nodded. “Or maybe you’ve got a persecution complex, Pastor Grayman. You sure you’re not the leader of this here cult?”

  Grayman’s lips thinned. Joe eyed Gentry, wondered if the guy was smart enough to follow the conversation. Probably not. Either way, he wouldn’t do anything until Grayman gave the go-ahead. It was the same way when he worked for Joe. Gentry had enough knowhow, yet he’d stand around with his thumb up his butt until you drew him a picture and ordered him to move.

  “Mr. Copeland,” Grayman said, “I’ve already corrected you, so I must assume your continued reference to our family as a cult is an attempt to make me angry.”

  “Call me Chief Copeland if you want,” Copeland said with a wintry grin. “Unless of course you’re trying to make me angry.”

  Grayman drew in shuddering breath. “Why don’t you just get to the point?”

  “That’d be great with me, pastor. Honestly, I don’t much like being in your presence. Or Gentry’s. I keep thinking he’s going to drop his drawers and take a little personal time.”

  Grayman sighed. “What do you want?”

  “Information,” Copeland said, peering about the yard. There were numerous oaks, maples, sycamores, and ash trees about, so that very little of the yard actually got the sun. Here and there, patches of grass were mottled with the pale orange of early morning, but mostly there was just gloom.

  Grayman looked from Copeland to Joe and back to Copeland. “I’m waiting. You said you had questions…”

  “Mind if we look around?” Copeland said.

  Joe was sure Grayman would order them off his land then, but the short man surprised him by smiling and spreading his arms. “Of course! We’d love for you to see the property.”

  And Grayman was splitting them and trotting down the porch steps into the grass. Joe and Copeland exchanged a glance, and Gentry muttered, “Assholes” as he followed Grayman’s lead. When Gentry passed between Joe and Copeland, the big police chief threw out a shoulder, and Gentry was suddenly sprawled on the grass below the porch, staring up at Copeland with wounded surprise.

  “Sorry about that, Kevin,” Copeland said, smiling jovially and dismounting the porch to proffer a hand. “This darned shoulder has a mind of its own.” He rolled it around to demonstrate.

  Gentry’s face twisted in anger as he shoved to his feet and followed Grayman. Moving after him, Joe said, “You’re really pushing it, you know?”

  “They’re killers,” Copeland said in a low voice. “They deserve to be pushed.”

  They came around the house and saw the structures Joe had first mistaken for livestock buildings. There were three of them lined up in a neat row. There were maybe thirty feet between them, the buildings themselves about sixty feet long and half as wide. The roofs were peaked in the middle, giving them the appearance of pole barns, the kind in which farmers often kept
their machinery. Only these buildings weren’t constructed of sheet metal; the facades looked like good, solid wood. The white paint was weathered, but the structures didn’t look like they’d blow down any time soon. Joe wondered how long the commune had existed.

  Grayman was standing before the first building. He gestured toward it as Joe approached. “This is the Dagda, the oldest of the three cottages.”

  Copeland eyed the long building. “Cottage, huh? Looks more like a barracks to me.”

  Grayman looked embarrassed. “Please, Chief Copeland, you make us sound like a militia.”

  Copeland didn’t answer, but his noncommittal grunt made it plain he thought Grayman’s group might be exactly that.

  “Would you like to see the inside?” Grayman asked.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Gentry said, but when Grayman gave him a freezing look, Gentry shut up fast.

  “No need yet,” Copeland said. He indicated the second building. “What about those other two?”

  “The same,” Grayman said. “With a few variations.”

  “Like what?” Joe asked.

  “The floor plans differ slightly,” Grayman explained. “In the Dagda, for instance, the sleeping area is in the rear of the building. In the Morrigan, it’s in the front.”

  “Those Irish words?” Joe asked.

  In answer, Grayman favored him with a peculiar smile.

  Copeland was nodding thoughtfully. “So all three of these places are living quarters.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You sleep out here or in the main house?”

  “The house,” Grayman answered. But was there the slightest hesitation in his answer?

  “Are these co-ed?”

  Grayman chuckled, regarded his shiny black loafers. “Now you’re making us sound like a college dormitory, Chief Copeland.”

  “Okay,” Copeland said. “I’ll rephrase. The guys and gals here shack up in the same rooms? A lot of fucking go on among your family members?”

  But Grayman didn’t seem abashed. He held Copeland’s gaze for a beat, then said, “You’ll find that our attitudes involving sexual congress are very different than the rest of society’s.”

  Copeland swatted Joe on the chest with the back of his hand. “Hear that, Joe? ‘Sexual congress.’ I always got a kick out of that phrase. Makes me imagine senators gettin’ blow jobs from their assistants.”