by Boo Walker
“Sure… I guess so. You got a pen?”
He found a slip of paper and a pen, and I wrote my number down.
“How’d you say you knew him, again?”
“I don’t think I did, but we went to the same church a while back. Became pretty good friends. Then he stopped going and we lost touch. I guess I’m just at that point in life when you have some strange desire to track down your old buddies. Some kind of midlife crisis.”
“Yeah, I can understand that.”
“Well, thank you.”
Back on the sidewalk near our car, Francesca said, “That place was weird, right?”
“I thought so. Maybe that’s how woodworkers are. I don’t know any.”
“I almost felt like they knew more than they led on.”
“Me, too.”
As we were getting back in, I noticed Overalls coming back down the street. He was waving a piece of paper. “Hold up!” he yelled.
I walked toward him. He was out of breath.
“Found it. Not me but my co-worker in the back there. We had another file of addresses I didn’t know about.” He handed me a sheet. “I don’t know if it’s the right one or not, but this is what he gave us at some point. It might have been years ago.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Yep.” He turned and went back the way he came.
CHAPTER 27
The address he gave us was on Whidbey Island, which was one ferry ride away. The ferry terminal wasn’t too much further north up the highway in a town called Mukilteo. We reached the ferry line and bought a trip leaving in twenty minutes. We got in line ten cars back and watched the massive boat slowly head our way. The salty smell of kelp blew through the open windows.
We boarded the ferry at eleven-thirty and got out and walked up to the top. You can stay in your car, but I think we both felt it was a little too tight in there considering all that had transpired between us the past few hours. I felt overwhelmed. In the back of my head, I had at least considered the idea of a future between Francesca and me. Not necessarily some big Italian wedding and all that, but at least a good year of a gooey little relationship. You know, taking a trip to some strange city and walking the streets holding hands. Dining at little bistros, sitting at outside tables sharing bottles of wine and our deepest thoughts. Making love in a park in the moonlight. Creating some memories. Helping me remember how to love another human.
We got coffee and she got a bowl of clam chowder, and we sat at a table by the window watching it all go by. Precipitation was beading up on the windows.
“Don’t judge me,” she said. “I can feel you judging me.” She took a bite of the steaming chowder.
“I’m not judging. Believe me, I am not one to judge.”
“So what are you thinking?”
“About what to do if Jameson is there? We need to be careful.”
I wiped a smudge off the glass with my handkerchief—it had been bothering me—and leaned back. The ferry wasn’t full so the booths in front and back were empty. “Say he kidnapped the girls. Do we want to make him admit to it? Or do we want to watch him?” Francesca was half-listening so I answered my own question. “I think we watch him. What’s he going to do next?”
I looked up at the television. They were showing where Dr. Kramer had been shot, in Green Lake. They flashed a letter and the caption under it read: Soldiers of the Second Coming claim responsibility for doctor’s murder. I grabbed the keys off the table and said, “Meet me down in the car. I need my computer.” I told her what I’d seen.
She stood and picked up her chowder. “I’m coming with you.”
Back in the Rover, I booted up my computer and found the news online. It didn’t take me long to find out what the letter said. I read it out loud:
The Lord God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden to work it and keep it. And the Lord God commanded the man, saying, ‘You may surely eat of every tree of the garden, but of the tree of knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day you eat of it you shall surely die.’
If we continue our pursuit of eternal life on earth, God will deny us the earthly return of Jesus and we will not ever know Heaven. Don’t make us sacrifice anyone else to get our point across. Let Dr. Kramer be the last.
- Soldiers of the Second Coming
I closed the computer. “You think Lucy Reyes and Erica Conway were with the Soldiers of the Second Coming?”
“Uh, yeah. Is a frog’s ass watertight?”
I laughed out loud. You have to love it when foreigners use American sayings. “So they think these technologists are eating from the Tree of Knowledge.”
“Which means no second coming of Christ.”
“Hence the triskelion. Remember what you said? The triskelion may signify rebirth. Second coming…rebirth. Ding, ding, ding. I think we have a winner.”
Francesca nodded in agreement and said, “That preacher on the tube, Wendy Harrill, was talking about some of this. The common thread among these Singularists is the pursuit of a longer, more perfect life, and that’s the single greatest threat to Christianity. You know what I mean? As a Christian, life is supposed to be hard. You’re supposed to struggle, and in that struggle, you learn to live the right way, and when you die, you get to go to heaven. So what if you have the choice of not dying, or not dying for a long time? Not only that, but what if the struggle goes away, too? If all these technologies come about, we’re talking about living a long time without all the pains we’re used to. No disease, no loss. Of course these people are pissed off. It questions the core of who they are.”
I looked at her. “Are you religious?”
“I grew up in Rome. The Vatican was my second home.”
“Well, I have to say your people are crazy. I should have just assumed this was about a bunch of religious freaks. Who else could it have been? No different than the people we’ve been chasing in the desert. A different God, but same fantasy.”
“These aren’t my people. They’re nut jobs.”
“That’s a nice term for them,” I said. “Singularists are working to manufacture heaven in their own way, not waiting and taking the chance that we wake up there after death. They are searching for God with science, not faith. So we’ve got a group of people out there so convinced this is wrong that they will break their commandments to save mankind. These people are lunatics of the highest degree. They’ve killed and it seems like they’re going to keep killing until they get their way.”
“They definitely give my faith a bad name.”
“They give radical Islamists a damn good run for their money.”
“I’m assuming from your cynical attitude that you’re not religious.”
“Lady, I don’t even believe in myself. I gave up on finding answers a long time ago. I’m just keeping busy until I die ‘cause I’m either too much of a pansy or too proud to kill myself. I don’t know which one.”
“Oh, get over yourself. You’re a good-looking, smart guy. You own a vineyard and make wine. You somehow got me naked. I think there are people out there that have it much worse.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“I am! You’re a drama queen,” she said.
Some awkwardness came rushing in, and I decided I wasn’t going to say another damn word.
CHAPTER 28
I’d been to Whidbey Island many times over the years. My friend’s parents used to invite me to their cabin every year, and I’d learned about the island’s rich Native American culture. The Snohomish, the Suquamish, and the Swinomish, among others, had lived there long before the Europeans moved in. Whidbey is like Bainbridge, where Ted’s folks lived, but it’s even further out there, much like the residents. People that left the city years ago to find some peace and quiet. An island where they can be who they want to be, smoke what they want to smoke, and love who they want to love. A splendidly colorful place sprinkled with artists and activists and actors and surely a few members of the witness prot
ection program, as well.
We drove off the ferry in Clinton and followed the GPS on Francesca’s phone toward the address Overalls had given us. Lush, dense forests quickly surrounded us. It was as remote as any place could be in the United States. You can drive miles without seeing anything but rolling hills and trees and a few mailboxes and farms.
About twenty minutes from Clinton, headed north, we found what we were looking for. A couple turns had put us into a deep forest with a long, winding two-lane road twisting even deeper inland. We passed an old mailbox with the correct number on it. We were there: 1523 Hounds Hollow.
We continued on, looking for a place to leave the Rover. It didn’t make sense to pull right up and introduce ourselves. If this guy was behind what was going on, he was not to be taken lightly.
Francesca turned right on a gravel road with no mailbox. We parked fifty yards down, so that we were off Hounds Hollow and not as obvious.
“I’m getting hungry,” I said. “You?”
“I’m okay. If you’d eat a little protein, you wouldn’t have to eat every ten minutes.”
“You know, you’re really starting to sound like me.”
“It’s annoying, isn’t it?”
“When you do it, yes.”
She closed the door and locked the Rover. The rain was still falling and dripping from the canopy high above. We left the road, cutting through the woods toward Jameson’s house. A bed of moss and leaves covered the forest floor; the leaves crackled under our feet. There was no way to be silent. But we didn’t think it mattered that much, unless Jameson’s friends at the woodshop had called and told him we were looking for him. But then why would they have given us his address? Matter of fact, his friend hadn’t just given it to us. He ran out after we’d left and chased us down. The guy seemed to be going out of his way to help us.
“So you’re going to be a Countess?” I asked, taking out my Ruger and checking the magazine. It was fully loaded. I pushed it back into the shoulder holster.
“That’s the plan.” She seemed exhausted by the subject.
I couldn’t help it, though. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, if you’re going to leave him, don’t do it all on my account. I could hang around you a little longer, but you don’t want to marry me. Believe me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. If I did leave him, it would have nothing to do with you. You were just a little side effect.”
“You really know how to make a guy feel special, don’t you? A complete drive-by is what you did to me.”
“More like a hit-and-run.”
“A come-and-go.”
She laughed at that one.
Just then, a sound came from my three o’clock. I jerked my head and we both moved behind a tree. I pulled my gun out and made a couple hand signals, indicating where I thought it was coming from. She agreed. We both cocked our pistols and knelt down low, watching and waiting.
More leaves cracking. I motioned for her to stay put and I moved forward, dashing to the next tree toward the sound. I took cover with my back against the tree, then turned and looked. Nothing. I did it again.
More movement. I raised my gun and rolled around the tree.
“Deer,” I said. “It’s a deer.”
A small doe was working her way through the forest, eating berries off a plant. At the sound of my voice, she disappeared like a bullet from a gun.
Francesca and I both took deep breaths and continued on, moving further and further into the woods, the tall trees swaying, dripping water all around us.
“Hey,” I interrupted. “You smell a fire?”
She stopped and stuck her nose in the air. “Faintly.”
Shortly after, we reached Jameson’s long driveway. We took a hard left to follow it without getting too close. After about a quarter mile, a cabin came into view. Nothing special at all. Couldn’t have been more than four rooms total. Smoke rose from a brick chimney. Three cars occupied the driveway. And you guessed it. One was a green two-door, a Honda. Just like Jess had told us. There was also a beat up Mercedes that had rusted above the wheel wells and a Dodge Ram truck.
We both saw the dogs at the same time, and stopped and watched them for a while. Two Dobermans were pacing back and forth in the front. They were tied up.
Approaching more cautiously now, working our way toward the back of the house to avoid the dogs, we got close enough to be able to see through the window. One man was standing in the kitchen washing his hands. I motioned for Francesca to move to the other side of the house, and she went on her way. I rested behind a large tree and pulled out my Ruger. I twisted around to see Francesca working her way from tree to tree and then disappearing on the other side.
That’s when I heard a woman’s scream coming from inside the house. The dogs started barking, and someone opened up the front door and shut them up.
I started moving closer to the back of the cabin.
The screaming came again and the dogs resumed barking. I ran to the outside of the cabin and dropped just under a window, my back to the wall. I looked around and didn’t see anyone. The woman screamed again and then broke into a cry.
I rose up, turned around, and peered through the glass. I’ll never forget what I saw.
I was looking in from the far side of the main room. On the other side, maybe twenty feet away, there was a woman sprawled out on the dining room table. She was naked and lying face-up. Her hands and feet were tied to each corner, the rope disappearing behind the table. Three men were there: two watching from one end as another pulled a steel fireplace tool out of the fire. He looked in my direction and I ducked. It was Jameson Taylor, I was sure of it. Thick glasses resting on that cauliflower nose. A thick white beard. A green button-down vest over a blue flannel shirt.
I stood up a couple seconds later and saw his back was to me as he moved toward the woman. He wore heavy black boots, and I could hear his steps as he moved. Then I noticed the red glow at the end of the iron in his hand. He was going to brand her. Certainly it was the same mark—the triskelion—we’d seen on the two dead women, Lucy Reyes and Erica Conway.
No way I was going to let that happen. I stood and started running for the door around the corner. Just as I began to round the house, I caught the blur of a wooden plank coming my way.
CHAPTER 29
My vision came back to me in a blur. Giant evergreens hovered above me. I could feel my arms being tugged and could hear footsteps, and it became obvious that someone was dragging me. My heels were digging in the dirt, drawing two parallel lines. My forehead hurt badly from where they’d hit me, and I was dizzy. I turned my head side to side, grasping for reality. Licked my lips and breathed.
Then I shook and pulled, trying to get a better view of my surroundings. There were two of them. Not the same men I’d seen inside the cabin. One held my gun in his free hand. I shook some more, and he hit me in the side of the head with it, knocking me back into a daze.
“You calm yourself down,” he said in a Canadian accent. He wore a golf hat and a beige shirt.
“Where is she?” I mumbled, jerking my arms.
He hit me again, much harder this time, knocking me out for a moment.
I came to with a raging headache. We had reached the steps at the front of the cabin. The dogs were barking again. The Canadian snapped at them and they went silent. The men lifted me up the stairs, my heels hitting every step as we went up. They pulled me through the door. There were five of them now. No one was talking. They dropped me on the bare kitchen floor, and I tried to sit up. One of them put a foot on my shoulder and pushed me back down. I wiped the side of my head and blood coated my fingers.
“We’ll fix that,” someone said, before showing himself.
It was Jameson Taylor. He appeared above me, grinning. I saw that the beard covered up some deep acne scarring. He was not a pretty man, to put it lightly. He put his big black heavy boot on my chest. “We were expe
cting you.”
Expecting me? Had the man in overalls from the woodshop given us this address on purpose? What a fool I’d been! I twisted and looked around. All five of them were staring down at me. At that point, my only hope was Francesca. Where was she?
With his boot still on my chest, Jameson reached into the pocket of his vest and dialed a number. “We’ve got him,” he said. A pause. “Agreed. See you in a little while.” He hung up. Pushing another couple buttons on his phone, he lifted it, framed me on the screen, and took a picture.
As Jameson removed his foot, the Canadian took a handful of my hair and said, “You make a move, you get kicked in the face.”
“You’re all dead men,” I said.
Jameson began to laugh. “Harper Knox. You have no idea what’s going on here, do you? You’ve no idea what’s about to happen.”
“I don’t imagine we’re off to a church picnic,” I mumbled.
He grinned. “Not quite.” Then he looked back at the Canadian. “Tie him up.”
Before I could resist, two of them had me on my stomach and were tying my hands together. I grunted as one of them pushed me hard into the floor. Where the hell was Francesca? I heard Jameson tell two of the men that their work was done, and then the door opened and closed as they left. There were now just three of us.
They lifted me up under my arms, and that’s when I saw the woman. She was still tied to the table. I’d forgotten about her. She wasn’t moving.
The two men walked me to a chair that had been pulled away from that very same table. They pushed me down onto the seat, and I knew I had to make a move. I couldn’t pull my hands free, but I kicked my feet out and rolled to the ground. Before I could get a kick in, the Canadian jerked me back up by the arm, threw me back in the chair, and locked his arm around my neck, cutting off my circulation. As I fought to breathe, the other one wrapped a rope around my chest and the back of the chair. After several times around, he tied it tight. The Canadian let go and I inhaled gulps of air. He knelt and tied my ankles to the chair legs, tightening the rope enough to stop the flow of blood to my feet. Then the other one pressed a strip of tape across my mouth, forcing me to stabilize my breath through my nose.