by Mark Dawson
THE SWORD OF GOD
A John Milton Novel
Mark Dawson
PART ONE
Chapter 1
SHERIFF LESTER GROGAN saw the man on the shoulder of the road, hauling a heavy pack in the direction of Truth. He was a hundred yards away when he noticed him for the first time, so he slowed the cruiser in order to take a better look. From behind, he looked just like any other hiker who passed through the hills in this part of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. He was a little over average height, and he looked lithe. He looked strong, too, judging by the amount that he was carrying without appearing to struggle. There was a large backpack over his back with several smaller bags lashed to it and, carried on a strap so that it crossed diagonally across his bag, there was a rifle.
Grogan drew up alongside and slowed the car to his pace. He reached for the button to slide down the electric window.
“Hold up there, partner?”
The man stopped. He looked across to him. “Yes?”
“How you doing?”
“I’m fine.”
Grogan quickly assessed him. He was dirty and dishevelled, with long dark hair that reached down to his shoulders, matted and twisted at the ends, and a thick, shaggy beard. His clothes were dirty, too. His jeans were frayed at the cuffs and patched in several places, and his hiking boots were caked with mud. He had the bluest, coldest eyes that Grogan had ever seen. They burned out from beneath heavy brows with an icy fire, and as the man turned to look at him in return, he felt momentarily disconcerted.
“Lester Grogan,” he said by way of introduction. “You’re just coming up to Truth. Couple of miles up the road.”
“I know.”
“And I’m the sheriff.”
The man just nodded.
“And what’s your name, friend?”
“John.”
“John?” he said, pressing for something that he could run through the computer.
“That’s right.”
“You got a second name?”
“Sure.”
Lester started to feel irritated. “You want to stop giving me attitude and tell me what it is?”
“Have I done something wrong?”
“Not that I know of. I just like to know who’s coming into my town.”
“Milton.”
“All right then, Mr. Milton. Good to make your acquaintance. What you out here for?”
“Just walking.”
“Just walking?”
“That’s right.”
“From where?”
“Trout Creek.”
“And where are you headed?”
The man shrugged, the backpack riding up his shoulders a little as he did so. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Wherever I end up, I guess.”
Lester Grogan had been a policeman for twenty years, and he hadn’t lasted as long as that without having learned to trust his instincts. And, right here, this guy was pressing all kinds of the wrong buttons: he was evasive, he had an attitude on him, he looked like a bum. None of those characteristics made him feel a whole lot better about him, or the prospect of him coming into his little town.
“You planning on staying in Truth?”
“Thought I might.”
“You want a ride?”
The man shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
Lester reached across and opened the passenger door. “Seriously,” he said. “Let me give you a ride. Take the weight off.”
“I’m fine, Sheriff.”
“Get in the car, John.”
The man fixed him with those cold blue eyes again and, for a moment, Grogan thought he was going to call his bluff. That might have meant it would get interesting. But just as he was sliding his right hand down to his holster and his pistol, Milton shrugged the pack off one shoulder and then the other, opened the rear door, and slung it inside. He unslung the rifle and placed it carefully next to the pack, shut the door and got into the front next to him.
“All right,” Lester said. “Let’s go.”
LESTER DROVE west, following the long straight line of Highway 28, crossed the bridge over the Presque Isle River, and continued to Truth. They passed the mailboxes of the big houses on the edge of town and kept going, passing the sign for the KOA Indoor Playground and the strip mall with the gas station, the ATV rental shop, and the Pizza Hut that had only recently been opened. He had lived here ever since he had come back from the Gulf, and every little detail about it was familiar to him, from the wide-open spaces between the businesses to the ever-present green of the forest on the fringes of town. There was the four-way junction where old man McDonald had crashed his pickup into the UPS van last week. Johnny’s Bar where, last night, he had been forced to stop a fist fight between Thor Bergstrom’s boy and a couple of hikers who had been a little too enthusiastic with their drinking. He knew it all.
It was a peaceful, pleasant town. Small, just over a thousand residents, never too busy and it rarely presented any kind of challenge when it came to policing. Lester liked to think of himself as a modest man, but he was quite sure that the firm way that he went about his job was one of the main reasons for that. He kept on top of things, never allowing problems to develop, stamping them out quickly and decisively. That was what he was paid to do and he took pride in his job.
The man sitting in the car next to him could become a problem. Lester was able to read the signs. He was going to make sure it didn’t happen that way.
They reached the junction with Falls Road, the main drag that led into the centre of town. There was a blue sign for the state police and another for Big Trout Falls. The lights changed to red and Lester drew up to a stop.
“So,” he said as he waited for the lights to change, “where are you from?”
“Here and there,” the man, Milton, said.
“You don’t say much, do you?”
“I don’t have much to say.”
“What about that accent? What is that, English?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s not an accent we hear all that much up around here.”
Milton said nothing. The longer Lester was in his company, the more uncomfortable he became. His initial impression, as he had watched him on the side of the road, had been that he was a vagabond, a drifter. The kind of man who, in his experience, only brought aggravation to a place. He wasn’t so sure about that now, but, after talking to him, the initial reason for his reluctance to allow him into town had been superseded by something else. It wasn’t fear, because it took a lot to frighten Lester, it was more of an apprehensiveness that this John Milton was trouble. He was closed off, opaque to the point of being unhelpful, and it made Lester nervous. He acted like he had something to hide. The reasons for his unease might have changed, but his initial conclusion was the same: this was not the sort of man that Lester wanted in his town.
The lights changed to green. Instead of taking the right that led into Truth, he drove on. Milton turned his head to watch through the window as the glow of the town disappeared behind them, and then, when he turned back, he almost started to speak. Lester stiffened in anticipation. But Milton changed his mind, and, with a thin smile breaking across his face, he stayed quiet yet again.
Lester kept on driving west. They passed the sign that said YOU ARE NOW LEAVING TRUTH – COME BACK SOON and then, at that point, there could be no further doubt. Still Milton said nothing. Lester drove on another mile until the blue expanse of East Lake was visible on the left, and there he slowed the cruiser and pulled into the lot that served the campsite beyond. He turned off the road and crunched
across the stones and gravel until he came to a stop. Dusk had fallen fully now, and beyond the wooden guard rail and the gentle slope of the terrain lay the wide tract of the water.
He switched off the engine. “I hope that was helpful.”
Milton opened the door and got out of the car. He opened the rear door and took out his gear.
“There’s a campsite over yonder.” Lester pointed down to the shore. “It’s ten bucks or something to stay the night. But if that’s a problem, you let them know that Lester Grogan sent you. They’ll look the other way.”
Still Milton did not reply.
“Goodnight, then,” Lester said, reaching across for the door handle. He pulled it shut and lowered the window. “Look after yourself.”
Milton put his right arm through the straps of his big pack, hoisted it off the ground, and settled it across his shoulders. He picked up his rifle and turned back to the cruiser. “I’ll be seeing you around.”
Lester’s hand hovered over the start button. He looked back at him with a smile on his face, but he made sure there was steel in his voice when he replied, “No. You won’t.”
He stared out at the man, saw him looking down at him, felt that same jolt of disquiet and, hoping that he had just misinterpreted his meaning, pressed the button and put the cruiser into reverse. The night was drawing in quickly now, and the lights flicked on automatically, the beams sweeping out over the still water, catching the insects in the bright shafts. The gravel crunched beneath the tyres as Lester put the car into drive, rumbled away to the road, and turned right to head back into town.
Chapter 2
MILTON WATCHED the lights of the cruiser as it headed down the half mile of straight before the road bent to the left and was swallowed up in the dark embrace of the tree line. That, he thought, had been almost comical in its unexpectedness. He looked down at himself. He supposed he did look a little rough and ready, a little ragged around the edges, but he had been living off the land for the past few weeks, and modern amenities had been few and far between. What did they expect around here? A haircut and a manicure? A lounge suit?
He had started out in Ohio. That had been where the trouble had started and where he had decided that the best way to insulate himself from temptation was just to put as much distance between himself and it as possible. He had bought the things that he needed in Akron and then set out into the wilderness, skirting the southern shore of Lake Erie, turning north at Toledo and then following the water north into Michigan. He had walked most of the way, occasionally breaking up the journey by hitching or, on one occasion, smuggling himself into the empty boxcar of a freight train that rumbled north out of Flint. He stayed away from towns, skirting them when he could, and had found quiet spots to sleep in his tent. It had been peaceful and calming, exactly what he had needed to quieten the clamour in his head.
It reminded him of his time in the regiment, and especially the training in the Brecon Beacons, long days and nights living off the land even as other soldiers were trying to track him down. He had been good at it then, and he had been pleased to find that his skills had not atrophied from lack of use. His previous life, in the Group, had often occasioned a life of ease and comfort in the lulls between assignments. On other occasions, he had been required to stay in high-end hotels so as to present the right impression to the targets he had been sent to eliminate. He had never been comfortable with conspicuous excess, and he had found these last days, with their simplicity and honesty, to have been exactly what he needed.
But as he had trekked northwest through the Straits State Park, the rains had come. He had been caught on the road during a particularly heavy downpour. The rain had lanced down so hard that the noise was loud enough to obliterate the sound of the engines of the cars that had ignored his outthrust thumb. He had quickly been soaked to the skin and the rains had been constant, more or less, ever since. He had put up his tent and sheltered for a day. But when it became obvious that the weather had settled in for the long haul, he had struck camp and set off again. He needed to keep moving and if a little discomfort was the price that he had to pay, then so be it.
The rains had continued as he headed north. The tracks that he followed became muddy quagmires, and he had to be wary of flash floods, previously empty riverbeds that became rushing torrents with frightening speed. His clothes were permanently sodden, his hair and beard streamed with water, and the cold started to leech into his bones. He had not intended to stop in a town until he crossed into Wisconsin, but the more he mused on it the more he figured that he could adapt his plan. His time in the wilderness had weakened his urge to drink, and he felt strong enough to resist the temptation again. He saw from his map that the town of Truth was on his route, so he had decided to stop. A warm meal, a hot bath and a clean bed suddenly sounded particularly attractive.
And then this.
You really couldn’t make it up.
He glanced around at the parking area, the path that led down to the lake and, on the shore, the open space that was reserved for campers. There was a tent there, the beige canvas just visible in the dying light. It was a big one, pitched next to a four-wheel drive. Fishermen, Milton guessed. And as he paused there, he heard the sound of voices blown up to him by the breeze that came off the water.
He could pitch his tent down there, he supposed. The site was big enough that he could put enough distance between himself and the fishermen so that he wouldn’t be disturbed. He remembered from his map that the town of Wakewood was twenty miles to the west. He usually covered around three miles an hour and, if he stayed close to the road, the terrain wouldn’t slow him down too much. He could camp here overnight, set off early in the morning, and be in town in time for lunch.
He almost resolved to do that when the sky cracked with a deep, booming roll of thunder. He looked to the south and saw a huge jagged fork of lightning that lit up the water. The first spatters of moisture fell to earth, splashes that burst on his face as he looked up to the swirling dark clouds that were sweeping to the north. The lightning flashed and the thunder boomed again, closer now, and Milton changed his mind. He didn’t want to wait until he got to Wakewood. Damned if a prejudiced hick cop was going to tell him where he could and couldn’t go.
He rolled his shoulders to settle the straps of the pack, picked up his rifle, and crunched across the gravel to the hardtop. He turned to the east and started to walk the mile back into town.
IT TOOK him twenty minutes. The rain fell heavily, another drenching deluge that defied all logic by the way it seemingly grew in intensity the longer it went on. He passed the WELCOME TO TRUTH sign on the edge of town and kept going until he reached the crossroads where they had briefly stopped for the red traffic light. He had kept a close watch as Grogan had driven him through the town and knew which direction he would need to go in order to find the centre. The rain washed down, slicking the asphalt so that the red, amber and green reflected in long, painterly streaks. He waited for the traffic to clear and then crossed over the road and headed north. It was another two miles to the town proper and, by the time he got there, another half an hour had passed.
As Milton came into the town proper he thought, with a smile, that it was pleasant not to have to concern himself with the procedures that he had lived by for so long. Normally, on arrival in a place like this, he would have conducted an SDR—a Surveillance Detection Run—a routine designed to flush out anyone who might have been following him. That was ancient history for him now, although old habits died hard.
Truth looked like a small kind of place, the kind of town that had most things that you needed, but only a few of each: a couple of hotels, a few restaurants, a few bars. Down on its luck, too, from the looks of the faded and peeling paint on the buildings and the cheap neon signs that fizzed and popped. It was the kind of town Milton had gotten used to seeing. This part of Michigan was a poor country of poor people. The young men he saw on the street corners flashed him threatening looks, crippled
by divorce and schools that had failed them, driving rusting jalopies or chopped motorcycles that spluttered and coughed. Drinking beers and smoking cigarettes they couldn’t afford, snorting Mexican dope, waiting to commit the senseless crimes that would lock them away. Properties were put up for sale with no hope of selling them, faded memories and broken dreams recycled like the counterfeit shoes and knock-off DVD players that filled the second-hand stores and pawnshops. Milton had walked hundreds of miles and had not seen a Lexus or a Mercedes. Instead he saw dented Fords and Chevys left in front of Laundromats and convenience stores. Scattered homesteads were named Hope Ranch and Last Chance without a trace of irony.
He stopped at a late night Laundromat and asked for directions to the nearest hotel. The attendant directed him up the road and then to the right and, after a short walk, Milton reached it. An old neon sign, with some of the letters unlit, announced it as Perkins Village Inn. Milton went inside, wiping the water from his face.
The teenage girl behind the counter looked up at him with distaste. Milton frowned and then remembered what he must look like.
“Hello,” he said. “I need a room.”
“How long for?”
“One night.”
The girl chewed gum with lazy insouciance and radiated disinterest. She pecked her fingers against the keyboard in front of her. “Yeah,” she said. “We got a room. Fifty bucks. You pay up front.”
Milton reached into the waterproof belt he wore around his waist, unzipped it, and took out his roll of money. He peeled off two twenties and a ten and laid them on the counter. The clerk took them, slid them in the till, and fetched a key from a rack on the wall behind her.
“Room twelve,” she said. “End of the corridor, turn right, on your left.”
Milton thanked her, collected his backpack and rifle, and followed her directions. The hotel was old and down-at-heel. The carpet was stained in places, and the furniture in the communal areas had seen better days. Milton didn’t see any other guests and, as he looked out of the window onto the parking lot outside, he saw that it was empty. It didn’t matter.