The Thing in the Woods

by Matthew W. Quinn

  “How’s being sacrificed for the best?”

  Phil’s hand slid down toward his holstered pistol. He could shoot Sam now, take him by surprise. It wouldn’t be that hard to claim he’d had come there with violent intentions, especially given how he’d challenged Phillip in front of his staff. The restaurant was in the unincorporated county, and there were congregants in the Sheriff’s Office. Between that and Georgia’s friendly attitude toward self-defense, that’d be it.

  No. There were times where he’d been tempted to order his first sergeant to make some pissant draftee walk point so they’d step on a land mine or be the first to die in an ambush, but he’d never abused his power the way other platoon lieutenants had. And many of those who’d been whining, spoiled hippies Stateside had made fine Marines, eventually. Sam was getting troublesome, but this wasn’t like passing dope around the camp or stirring up racial crap like some of the white trash did.

  Phillip looked at his watch. The dinner crowd—such as it was these days—would start arriving in an hour or two. He really didn’t have time for this bullshit right now.

  “Sam, I’ve got work to do. How about we discuss this in more detail tonight?”

  Sam looked at Phillip a bit too rebelliously for his taste. Phillip’s hand slid closer to his gun. He’d make it quick, a shot to the head. A gut-shot would take a long time in killing and the odds Sam would survive once the ambulance was called were too great.

  “All right,” Sam conceded.

  Phillip almost sighed in relief. “I’m glad you and I can see eye to eye.”

  Sam turned and walked out of the office. Once he saw Sam leaving the restaurant on the screen linked to the security cameras, Phillip reached over to his tan desk phone. He had some work for Reed.

  Then something black on the screen caught his eye. His hand fell away. This was something he had to see to personally.

  Phillip had almost stayed home that day. He had a couple episodes of Lie To Me recorded, and he hadn’t taken a day off in over a week. He could relax, let his subordinates mind the store for him. And if he hadn’t been there for Sam to argue with, the younger man might’ve expended his doubts all by his lonesome rather than had them validated by his actually acknowledging them.

  But now, as the tall man in the dark suit and sunglasses approached the counter, Phillip was glad he’d saved Tim Roth’s lessons on detecting body language for after the congregation’s gathering that night. This one would probably claim to be some businessman passing through town, but Phillip had seen his kind before.

  Three of them had come in from Atlanta just after he’d returned from Vietnam. He hadn’t particularly cared if any of Edington’s blacks voted or not—provided they didn’t vote for Communists, overly-radical unions, or other disruptive elements—but most of the congregation and the high priest had, and he always followed orders. He’d led the congregation’s strike team that killed two of the interlopers in that shitty motel they were staying in on the north side. They’d have gotten all three of them if it weren’t for the damned traitor.

  Phillip looked the man up and down. The stranger looked like an Atlanta businessman, or somebody from the Chamber of Commerce who’d decided to dress up. But there were bulges under his arms an unwary man wouldn’t notice. Phillip narrowed his eyes. This man clearly didn’t believe in “non-violence” like his predecessors had. Phillip checked his hand’s drift toward his own pistol and put on a big fake smile.

  “How can I help you?” he asked. “It’s a little early for dinner, but we’ve got plenty that can take the edge off.”

  The man didn’t immediately respond. His head was angled slightly back, enough to take in the menu over the counter without taking his eyes off Phillip. For his part, Phillip didn’t let his eyes leave the stranger either.

  “I’ve always been partial to macaroni and cheese,” the man said, in an accent Phillip couldn’t quite place. Damnation. The three interlopers had sounded much the same.

  Phillip nodded quickly. “Best macaroni and cheese in town. We use real butter.” Unlike that Kraft crap they serve across the street. “It goes well with brisket.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll have the smallest portion of each. Can’t linger.”

  Phillip whistled to the cooks behind him and passed the man’s order along. The man quickly paid for his meal, using small bills. Phillip checked the urge to frown. If the stranger used a credit card, that might provide a clue or two about his identity and purpose.

  “It’ll be a second until it’s ready. What brings you to Edington?”

  The man smiled, but the frown lines between the dark lenses concealing his eyes twitched. Phillip’s grin widened, and it wasn’t fake this time. The man had handed him the knowledge that whatever he was about to say wouldn’t be true, or at least not entirely, on a silver platter. It looked like watching Lie to Me had paid off.

  “I’m an insurance investigator. Somebody in town was in a car accident a couple days ago. I’m here to check it out.”

  The man was a much an insurance investigator as Phillip was an authentic, washed in the blood Baptist. No insurance investigator carried two guns in a shoulder holster, not unless they were operating in the hard ghettoes of Atlanta and probably not even then. And he was going out of his way to not only use cash—which could not be tracked electronically—but to use small bills that wouldn’t draw attention.

  That carpetbagger kid saw Him and escaped. He had to execute Thomas to maintain discipline in the congregation. Sam was wavering more than ever. And now this stranger shows up in Edington, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Fear began its slow creep up his spine. Sweat began beading under his gray hair. Phillip deliberately slowed his breathing down. He wouldn’t show fear before this interloper.

  “Sorry to hear about that.” Phillip knew how the game was played. “Anybody hurt?”

  “Nope. But I did hear something about a facial injury. And we can’t find one of the people involved in the accident.”

  Facial injury. A missing man. That carpetbagger kid. John Thomas. The man in black knew some things he shouldn’t. Either he was an inexperienced FBI agent—or Secret Serviceman or whatever the hell he was—unskilled in OpSec, or he was deliberately dropping hints in hopes of tricking a revealing reaction from Phillip. Sly bastard was probably trying the latter.

  “Well, that’s no good. I read the local paper every day, and I haven’t heard anything about that.”

  “The local paper probably hasn’t gotten the week’s police reports. I imagine you’ll hear about it soon enough.”

  Phillip kept up his friendly façade, but now anger warred with fear inside him. That last sentence had to be a threat. This Atlanta bastard comes into his town, into his restaurant, and threatens him? He almost wanted the son of a bitch to come to the tree farm. Let the man in black see what happens when one challenges a god.

  He looked away from the stranger before his anger broke out on his face. His attention fell on his employees. The plate brimming with blackened brisket and golden mac and cheese sat ready on the tray now. All that remained were the napkins and utensils.

  “Looks like your food is ready, sir,” he called out loud enough for the man to hear. He stepped forward to take the tray himself, leaving one of his cooks standing there with the napkin, fork, and knife in his hands. He set the tray on the counter in front of the interloper and then turned to take the napkin, knife, and fork from the cook. The younger man recoiled at the expression marring Phillip’s face—good—but the high priest had his false smile back on by the time he turned back to the intruder with the utensils.

  “Thanks,” the man said. He took his food and retreated to a table by the door. But rather than set to it immediately, he removed what looked like one of those new iPhones from a belt clip and started typing something. Phillip’s lips were a thin line. Typing something about him no doubt. After a few moments, the man put his phone away and finally started eating. Phillip watched him anyway. Phillip watched the
man until he left the restaurant.

  And once the enemy spy was gone, it was time for war.

  Back in his office, Phillip went immediately back to his phone. The presence of this intruder changed everything. He didn’t just need for Sam to be taught a lesson. No, Sam needed to be sidelined for the next few days at least. He couldn’t have some loose cannon fucking things up while he made sure the stranger could never make contact with the carpetbagger kid.

  Phillip dialed Reed’s number, but it went straight to voicemail. Phillip almost smiled. Reed must be at work. With everybody tapping on their smartphones day and night, he could respect a willingness to put it aside and give one’s all on the clock. He dialed the gas station.

  “Hello?” a young voice he didn’t recognize answered.

  “My name is Phillip Davidson. I’m looking for Jeffrey Reed. Is he available?”

  Silence. “He’s stepped away for the moment. You want to call back?”

  “How long do you think it’ll be?”

  “No more than two or three minutes.”

  “I can hold.” Time passed. Phillip drummed his fingers on the desk. Sam might already be doing something stupid like trying to warn the carpetbagger kids or spread his rot among other congregants. If it got too far, he’d have no choice but to kill him. Even if he was a fellow vet and a kinsman besides.

  “Brother Phillip?”

  “Brother Jeffrey, can we speak privately?”

  Phillip imagined a nod on the other side. “Yes sir.” The line clicked off. A moment passed. Phillip’s phone rang again.

  “Hello?”

  It wasn’t Reed. “Hey Phil, it’s Carlton. There’s been some kind of accident on 285. The pork butt shipment’s going to be late.”

  Damnation. He didn’t need a business call right now.

  “I understand,” Phillip said quickly, letting only the slightest hint of irritation into his voice. “I’ve got an important call I need to take, so if that’s it, don’t worry about it.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He put the phone back down on its cradle a bit harder than necessary. Another moment passed. The phone rang again. If it was Carlton, no matter how cheerful that man was, he was going to find a new distributor. He didn’t have time for this bullshit.

  “It’s Reed. I’m in the woods out back so nobody can hear me.”

  Reed wasn’t a veteran far as Phillip knew, but he knew his OpSec. A pity Sam didn’t, but he was an Army puke after all. “Good. I’ve got a job for you.”

  “One of those kids?” His old eagerness was there. Good. “I won’t fuck up this time.”

  “Nope. It’s Sam.”

  “Sam?” Reed sounded shocked. Phillip wasn’t surprised. It had been decades since there’d been a purge. Congregant was not to harm congregant except at the command of the high priest. This was one of those times, but Phillip didn’t expect Reed to know that.

  “Yes, Sam. He’s being insubordinate. You know how that’s dealt with.”

  “Yes sir.” Phillip imagined Reed grinning when he said that. When all one had was a hammer, everything looked like a nail. “You want me to kill him?”

  Part of Phillip wondered if he should let Reed kill Sam. Someone with Sam’s attitude was a liability, especially now that He had shed Edington blood and there was an outsider wolf in the fold. He had all confidence that the power in the woods that had protected the town and the faithful for centuries would triumph, but a member of the congregation going off the reservation could make things more difficult than necessary.

  No. He’d sacrificed Tolliver because the man was an irredeemable drunk. Sam could still be salvaged. And there was Brenda to worry about too. She didn’t need to lose her baby and her husband.

  “No. Just kick some sense into him. Tell him that he should have more faith. He’ll understand.”

  “Yes sir.” A pause. “Do you want me to do anything else?” There was eagerness in his voice. Maybe Reed still wanted to kill Sam or have some fun with Brenda.

  Phillip’s still-impressive muscles tensed at that unwelcome thought. If Reed laid a hand on Brenda, he’d die even more slowly than the traitor Phillip brought before Him decades ago. And with that attitude, he’d probably go overboard on Sam too. Phillip would need to be very specific.

  “No. At the absolute most, I want him laid up for the next two days. No more damage to him that the minimal requirements for that, and no harm to anybody else. If you exceed my orders—and I will be the judge of that, not you—you will have Him to deal with. Slowly. Do I make myself clear?”

  A pause. “Yes sir.” He didn’t sound so gleeful. Good.

  “I’m glad we understand each other. This needs to be done today. I’m sure you can leave that kid running the gas station for an hour or so.”

  “He’s a good kid. It won’t be a problem.”

  “Excellent.”

  Phillip hung up, then started dialing the Sheriff’s Office. They had to get that damn carpetbagger boy ASAP.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Brenda?” Sam called out as he stepped through the front door. The screen door banged behind him. “Brenda, you home?”

  Part of him hoped she wasn’t. After the miscarriage three months ago, they’d both cried for a week. The heavy burden of sadness hadn’t hung on him much longer, but it still weighed heavily on her. They’d been married since he got back from the Gulf, but try as they might they’d never managed a kid. Now there wasn’t much time left. If she got out, that’d take that weight off her mind for a bit, cheer her up some. Sitting around the house didn’t do a body any good at all.

  Nobody answered. Sam looked through the doorway to the right, into the kitchen. The grocery list was missing from the refrigerator. Sam smiled. He’d been planning on getting that done himself, but she’d beaten him to the punch.

  Then the screen door swung open with its characteristic screech. A chill ran up his spine. He’d forgotten to shut the main door. Footsteps squeaked on the linoleum. His Beretta was in the drawer by his bed. He’d thought to get a concealed-carry permit and keep it with him rather than where Brenda could get to it. But he’d never actually gone through with it.

  And now somebody was in his house. Maybe it was just someone whose car had broken down, but they were pretty far from the main drag. He narrowed his eyes. He’d bet Phil sent somebody to shut him up. And there was one man in the congregation whom the high priest would turn to in a pinch.

  “Why Brother Jeffrey.” He didn’t even turn around. “What brings you out here today?”

  Reed snorted. “You’re smarter than you let on. If you know it’s me, you know why I’m here.”

  Reed had fifty pounds on him, most of it muscle. He’d have to be quick. Right for the throat. That was one of the kill-strikes he’d been trained to deliver if it came down to fists.

  Sam feinted left before spinning right. Reed had moved left, but not as far as he needed to. He deflected Sam’s throat chop with one hand and swung with the other. Sam dodged a blow that would have destroyed his ear.

  Sam quickly retreated into the den and around the sofa, putting its threadbare green bulk between him and Reed. His gaze fell to the stone coasters on the coffee table. He’d left them out when he’d had friends over to watch the Braves game. He’d forgotten to pick them up, and Brenda hadn’t done it either…

  Sam had one in his fist as Reed came around the sofa. He swung for his enemy’s chin. That should knock the big bastard out cold.

  Reed kicked the coffee table straight into Sam’s knees. Sam stumbled. His blow went wide. Reed’s blow struck true, hitting Sam in the temple. His vision flashed black. He fell to his knees. A kick to the side laid him out.

  “Phil says to have more faith in Him. I hope this will learn you a lesson.”

  He pulled back a booted foot for a kick that’d roll Sam into the brick fireplace. As the blow whistled in, Sam swatted it aside. Reed’s foot passed over his hip. He kicked at Reed’s leg, hoping he’d hit at just the right
angle.

  It worked. Reed toppled backward onto the couch. Its springs sang beneath his weight. Pain raging in the side of his head and just below his ribs, Sam pulled himself to his feet. He’d get the son of a bitch before he could rise. He leaped forward, landing knees-first in Reed’s lap. He pulled back a fist, coaster still in hand, to put the man’s lights out.

  The screen door swung open again. Brenda slumped in, a brown bag of groceries from the nearby Piggly Wiggly in her slender hands. Her blue eyes widened as she took in the scene. The grocery bag fell from her hands, scattering food on the floor at her feet.

  “Sam?” she asked. “Sam, what’s—”

  Reed took that as his moment to shove Sam onto the coffee table. The wood split beneath him, sending him crashing into the carpet below. Reed rose from the couch and glared behind him.

  “You stay out of this if you know what’s good for you!” he snarled. “I’m here on congregation business.”

  “Congregation business? Since when did you go to County Line?”

  Sam took the opportunity to hit Reed in the back of the knee. The big man screamed. Maybe he'd just fucked up Reed's ACL.

  “Get the Beretta!” Sam ordered. He’d feared what might happen if Brenda got her hands on it, but he’d worry about her mental state later.

  Brenda’s feet squeaked on the linoleum. Reed roared and lunged around the sofa, favoring his other leg. Sam grabbed him by the boot. He fell gut-first onto the floor. With luck that'd knock the wind out of him. Sam lunged, but Reed was faster. He bounced back up and backhanded Sam, sending him stumbling across the living room.

  “You get the hell away from my husband!” Brenda snarled. She stood in the hallway leading toward their bedroom. The pistol was raised, but it wasn’t high enough. Sam hadn’t gotten her lessons. Now he wished he had.

  Reed charged. She raised the gun, but the big man grabbed it before she could level with his chest. The gun went off, an ear-splitting roar in the small room. Plaster sprayed from near the fireplace behind him. The bullet buried itself in the wall just beside the picture of their wedding day in Savannah, so long ago…