Bloodcrier: The Complete Two-Book Series

by Richard Denoncourt

  Charlotte, on the other hand, wore a tight, dark-green cotton shirt showing off an impressive bust, jeans that were tighter still, and hiking boots that made her feet seem as big as a man’s. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail. Dietrich couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  “Have anything for us?” He offered her a hand-rolled cigarette. She waved it away.

  “Clean a spot for me to sit,” she ordered.

  Dietrich stepped aside. Warren grumbled, although he immediately set about wiping dirt and leaves off a fallen tree trunk. Charlotte sat in ladylike fashion, wrists crossed on one knee, and gave Warren a dirty look when he sat next to her. He had to slide away a few inches before she was satisfied.

  “Get on with it, sweetheart,” Dietrich said, sitting across from her on his rucksack. The evening sky was darkening, and she would have to return soon or risk raising suspicion. “We’ve been in the dark long enough.”

  “They sent men,” she said.

  “An army?” Warren stupidly asked.

  Charlotte shook her head, and her next word sparked the most intense curiosity Dietrich had ever felt.

  “Messengers.”

  Now they were getting somewhere.

  3

  It was all men in the Cold War Café except for the waitress, a woman named Dana Dolinski, who worked part-time assisting Arielle on her shifts. Dana had volunteered to keep the café running in her boss’s absence. She now walked between the rows of tables, carrying plates of food and trying not to stare at the newcomers, who were all around her age—almost thirty-five—but she would never tell them that—and probably single, since they hadn’t brought along wives or girlfriends.

  She smiled at one man, and he grinned shyly.

  “Enough flirting, sweetheart,” Reggie said with a hearty chuckle. “Unless you want to flirt with me.”

  “Oh, you’re such a charmer,” Dana said. “Can I get you anything, handsome?”

  “Just another helping of everything, please.”

  “You got it,” she said before whisking into the kitchen.

  Despite eating in complete silence, the newcomers were clearly enjoying their food, which consisted of roasted pork, bread, mashed potatoes, and steamed vegetables. Reggie could tell it was their habit to eat in silence, probably from their years in the prison camp. Though they hadn’t shared any but the most basic details—yes, they were from the camp; yes, Michael had sent them; yes, please, they were very hungry—Reggie had a feeling he knew what this was about. He could barely contain his anticipation.

  “They’re almost finished,” he said.

  Quentin and another man under Reggie’s command—Terry Sanchez—shared a grin. The three had squeezed into a booth, trying not to stare at the newcomers.

  “You’re going to slide off your seat being all fidgety like that,” Quentin said, then added, “Sir.”

  Reggie waved the concern aside.

  Terry ate the last bit of pork on his plate, then sighed. “Do we have any beer we can serve them? If they’re going to tell a story, they should have beer. Someone in this town’s gotta have some.”

  Reggie leaned slightly over the table, dropping his voice. “You’re not going to like this,” he said, and both men stopped what they were doing, “but I need you on those towers tonight. We can’t leave the town defenseless while we listen to bedtime stories.”

  Quentin glanced at something behind Reggie.

  “I’d be more worried about her,” he said.

  Reggie glanced over his shoulder at the front windows. Charlotte stood in the street, arms crossed over her chest, staring into the Cold War Café. Reggie couldn’t decipher the expression on her face. Was it anger, jealousy, or curiosity? Nonetheless, it sent a chill through him.

  He slid out of the booth and faced her, then motioned with one arm for her to join them. He didn’t trust her, but there wasn’t any danger in having the girl in a room full of trained soldiers.

  Right?

  Making no sign to acknowledge his invitation, Charlotte turned and walked away. Swallowing a nervous feeling, Reggie pivoted to address the men in the room.

  “If I can have your attention,” he said, every pair of eyes suddenly trained on him. “I know you’ve traveled far and you’re tired, but I’d like to invite you to our town hall for a discussion after the meal. There’s no time to waste. I’m sure Michael feels the same way.”

  The man with the oil-black hair stood.

  “Your name, soldier?” he asked. “We weren’t properly introduced.”

  “Reggie Smith. And you are?”

  The man nodded once, a formal greeting that didn’t extend beyond militaristic respect. This man was different—and most definitely not a former prisoner. But who was he?

  “My name is Simon Keagan,” the man said, his gaze faltering as if speaking his own name made him feel slightly ashamed. “Until recently, I was a colonel in Harris Kole’s military force and the warden of Camp Brazen, where these men—and your friend Michael Cairne—were imprisoned.”

  Shocked, Reggie’s mouth dropped. His hand instinctively drifted toward the pistol holstered on his belt.

  Keagan caught the movement.

  “No need to be cautious around me,” Keagan said. “If I were a threat to any of you, these men…” He nodded at the soldiers seated in the booth, and they regarded him respectfully. “Well, I imagine they would have shot me before we arrived on your doorstep.”

  Reggie let his hand fall to his side, away from the pistol. “When you’re ready…” he started to say.

  “No. Now,” Keagan said. “We meet in the town hall right now. This can’t wait any longer.”

  With that, he headed toward the door, not waiting for anyone to show him the way. Reggie followed.

  Simon Keagan might have been harboring an evil past, but Reggie couldn’t help it—he liked this man tremendously.

  The men stood around awkwardly as Reggie and a shy, one-eyed soldier—who introduced himself as Abir—brought wooden chairs from the back room. They arranged the chairs in a circle as if this were a support group where traumatized men were expected to share their deepest feelings.

  “Thank you,” Keagan said with a nod to Reggie.

  His deep voice reverberated around the large, empty area. The gathering room in the town hall was two stories tall, with a darkened balcony yawning several feet into the room, above the main doors, and was supported by four Grecian pillars.

  Once they were seated, Keagan shot up from his chair and began to pace around the circle of men.

  “Pacing keeps me focused,” he explained. “This won’t be a brief summary. What happened in Camp Brazen was like no military victory I’ve ever seen or heard.”

  He stood still. His next words—spoken barely above a whisper—caused the former prisoners to sympathetically avert their eyes.

  “It also took the lives of the only two people I loved from me—my wife and daughter.”

  Noting the sadness in the man’s voice, Reggie felt a tightening in his own throat.

  “But I’m not asking for pity, only that you listen and understand.” Keagan flashed Reggie one of his intense gazes. There were no other townspeople in the room, which made him feel self-conscious, as if the following story meant he alone had to preserve it for the rest of time. “I was an evil man,” Keagan continued, “and I’ll take that guilt and shame with me to the grave, just as Andrea and Sarah…” His voice trembled slightly, and he paused to collect himself. “Just as my wife and daughter took their innocence to theirs.”

  Looking down at the floor, he continued pacing, arms crossed.

  “It all started when a boy named Marshall Towne arrived at Camp Brazen. A boy I’ve since come to know as Michael Cairne. A boy who changed everything.”

  The balcony was dark and filthy, its tattered carpet overrun with mice droppings, dust, and lint balls. Upon entering, Charlotte had accidentally kicked the dry, furry shell of some long-dead animal she couldn’t identify, almost
gagging at the smell.

  Now, it didn’t bother her so much. Seated in one of the dozen or so chairs near the door—to avoid being seen by the men below, especially Reggie with his watchful sniper’s gaze—Charlotte intently listened to the serious-looking man with the jet-black hair as he told his story.

  Not just his, but Michael’s as well.

  “A boy who changed everything,” the man rather dramatically said, though he was clearly an effective storyteller. The way his pleasantly rich voice reverberated, sending chills zipping along her bones, made Charlotte feel as though she were standing outside during a thunderstorm.

  “Get on with it,” she whispered.

  For the next half an hour, Charlotte listened as the man recounted the events leading up to the part she found truly fascinating—much more interesting, though not nearly as amusing, as the attempted rape in the warehouse and the rest of Michael’s trials.

  The Dreamscape.

  “Incredible,” she whispered. “So that’s how you did it.”

  4

  The alarm shrieked across Camp Brazen.

  Keagan’s first priority was to check if a truck had gone missing. He ran outside, stopping the first soldier he saw.

  “Sir, has someone escaped?” the man asked, reaching toward his pistol.

  Keagan could sense the adrenaline pumping through him. The guards were ready to shoot, but gunfire was the last thing the camp needed.

  “Have any trucks left the compound today?” Keagan asked, motioning for the man to leave his pistol in place.

  “We opened the gate for one truck.”

  “How long ago?”

  The man shrugged. “Not more than an hour, sir. Maybe thirty or forty minutes, tops.”

  “Find the nearest officer. Nelson, Sullivan, Turnbull, or whoever. Have them send out a search party. Three trucks, six men, max.”

  “But, sir, in these cases, we’re supposed to send out twelve scouts, minimum. How should I explain only six?” Nervously, he added, “With all due respect, I mean, Warden Colonel.”

  Keagan took a moment to ponder the man’s logic. His mind spun with theories. He wasn’t dealing with a regular prisoner. The boy was a telepath, capable of simply walking out of Camp Brazen unnoticed at any time he might have chosen.

  So why choose to steal a truck now? Or create such an illusion?

  He’s trying to split our forces. That’s what I would do.

  “Just do it, Private Oster,” Keagan said. “Tell them the warden ordered it that way because the truck might be a decoy. The prisoner is a telepath. A ment. And he may still be in the camp.”

  The guard saluted before running toward headquarters. Keagan made a mental note of Oster’s willingness to challenge a superior. It was a good trait, and Keagan might need his help later.

  An idea struck him.

  Keagan sprinted toward the hotboxes, sweat already pouring down his back. Seeking the nearest soldier, he shouted at the first man he saw.

  “Private Jefferson!”

  “Yes, sir?”

  The man jogged toward him.

  “Keep going wherever you were headed, but toss me your handcuffs first.”

  “Yes, Warden Colonel.”

  Jefferson unclasped the leather strap attaching them to his belt. Keagan motioned for him to throw them, which he did, not wasting a moment or asking why. Jefferson was another Keagan could depend on when the time came.

  When he reached Hampton’s hotbox, he used the master key, which opened all locks, and threw open the door.

  Hampton was gone.

  “Spiteful wrath,” Keagan cursed.

  By now, his entire shirt was soaked through with sweat, his mouth so parched his tongue kept sticking to the roof of his mouth. There was no time to waste. If his gut feeling was right, the camp had become vulnerable in a way none of these men had ever dealt with before.

  Keagan kept thinking about Andrea’s dream—her visit from a girl named Arielle, who had undoubtedly played a role in this. That meant there could be more. Others like Arielle and Marshall, set up just outside the camp.

  “Warden Colonel Keagan!”

  The shout had come from Jim Nelson, a husky, red-haired officer in his forties. The man was out of breath by the time he jogged up to Keagan.

  “I… I did like you asked, Warden…Colonel,” he said, putting a hand on his hip. It was clearly to keep from bending over and gasping. “Sent out the trucks and men. What now?”

  “Where is General Halsidier?”

  “Headquarters. Would you…like me to…go get him for you?”

  “I’ll get him myself,” Keagan said. Nelson looked relieved. “I want you to round up another officer and a handful of men, then begin arresting prisoners known to be closely associated with Dean Hampton and put them in the prison cells. Afterward, await further orders.”

  “Yes…sir.”

  After Nelson left, Keagan jogged toward HQ. With the entire camp on lockdown, he didn’t have to worry about anyone else entering or leaving. He could take the time necessary for a proper investigation, which meant putting certain other initiatives on hold.

  Taking the stairs inside the building two at a time, he headed toward Halsidier’s office, hoping the general would understand.

  If not…

  Well, I’m warden of this camp, not him.

  5

  The door was shut, and Keagan could hear the general shouting into the phone he used to communicate with the camp’s officers when Keagan wasn’t around to be his middleman.

  “If he sent the kid away,” Halsidier roared, “then why in the hell are the alarms going off? … Don’t tell me you don’t know. Find out! And get me Warden Keagan!”

  Keagan took a deep breath, released it, and knocked on the door.

  “What?” Halsidier slammed the phone into its cradle. He’d already broken two in the past month. “This better be good news!”

  Keagan opened the door and strode in, making sure not to sulk or seem in any way apologetic.

  “General Halsidier,” he said, saluting. “I set off the alarm. The telepath boy has escaped.”

  “Don’t fuck with me!”

  Halsidier slammed both fists against his desk, then stalked heatedly around it, crouched slightly like an animal ready to pounce. Face red, veins bulging in his neck, he stopped a foot away from Keagan and jabbed a finger toward his face. “The officers are saying you personally stuffed that ment into the truck and sent him away. Now you’re setting off alarms and sending out search parties? Saying there’s been another escape? The second one this week? If that’s what you’re telling me, Colonel—”

  Keagan tried to maintain his composure, but he could feel his resolve weakening under Halsidier’s abuse like a flower wilting in the face of a torrential storm.

  “There had better be a good explanation, Simon. I was just about to call Harris Kole on the sat phone to let him know to expect the boy. What in the spiteful wrath do you think he would have done if he’d heard an alarm going off in the background, you stupid, incompetent excuse for a prison warden? They should have hired you to be a nanny to these worthless, godforsaken prisoners. With your soft, sweet temperament…” His voice rose mockingly in pitch, fingers fluttering effeminately. “You could have turned this place into a fucking nursery where no one would even think to escape out into the big, bad Eastlands!”

  “Are you finished?” Keagan asked, maintaining steady eye contact. “Sir?”

  “What did you say to me?”

  Keagan dropped his gaze. “We’re dealing with a powerful telepath, and I believe he’s still in the camp. I’m the only man who knows how to fix this so we can save face.” He met the general’s gaze once more. “Should we fix it together? Or would you like to have me arrested and executed?”

  Halsidier’s nostrils stopped flaring, his breaths coming more slowly now.

  Yes, Keagan thought. He’s afraid of telepaths, and he doesn’t want to deal with this alone. He knows he need
s me.

  “You think you’re tougher than you are, Simon, but you’re not tougher than me. Remember that.”

  “Yes, sir.” Keagan nodded once, relieved to see Halsidier retreat a few steps to lean on his desk, arms crossed. After clearing his throat, Keagan continued. “My suggestion, General, is to put a hold on the prisoner reduction plan until we figure this out. One missing man, Dean Hampton, may have been secretly gathering a group of prisoners—”

  “You mean to tell me the boy and another prisoner are missing?”

  “Yes, sir. They were most certainly working together. Hampton was once an officer for the NDR, and many men in this camp respect him.”

  Halsidier’s rage had melted into an expression almost curious in nature, as if he were interested in seeing what solution Keagan could dream up. Keagan felt like a child explaining his latest science project to try to impress his schoolteacher.

  “And…” Halsidier asked. “You think I should delay the reduction plan when I’m inclined to think we should expand it and wipe Brazen clean of these filthy rats.”

  “Yes, but I have reason to believe Marshall Towne—the boy who escaped—might still be in the camp. He’s already proved himself capable of escaping any time he wants. We learned that when he helped prisoner Ferrance Walker practically walk out of here unnoticed.”

  “He drove.”

  Since he’d been so focused on his explanation, Keagan wasn’t sure what Halsidier was talking about.

  “Sir?”

  “He drove out of here,” Halsidier said. “Get your details right. One wrong step, and we risk looking like a bunch of spiteful amateurs.”

  “Yes, sir. He drove right through the gate, and the men standing post that night don’t remember a thing. They’ve since been punished accordingly, of course.”

  Halsidier straightened from his desk, then walked over to the window overlooking the camp.