Sins of the Fathers

by John Richmond

DAWN LIGHT INFUSED the air around the black Lotus, but there was no sun. Horton sat behind the wheel and surveyed the old, peeling gas pumps, the empty garage. The coordinates relayed by the oh-so-chipper Courtney at On-Star put the cargo van here. Horton had told her that he had a wayward teenager who’d taken the van without permission…again. No, involving the police hadn’t been necessary. Sure, she’d understood how kids could be, and had given him the location, guiding him over the phone as he ran his finger along a map. But the van wasn’t here.

  “Courtney,” Horton muttered. “You’re fired.” The “fired” drew out in a long, wavering note as a huge yawn ran through him. Jee-sus­, he was tired. He checked the cut on his face in the rearview mirror. A multichromatic bruise bloomed around the dark line of coagulated blood. It was knitting up under the Superglue, but still throbbed like a bastard. He needed about twelve hours’ sleep and some quality time with an attractive woman of dubious moral fiber. Maybe Courtney needed a new job now that he’d canned her.

  Seriously, though, kids. What the fuck was he supposed to do now? The On-Star tracking system had been his only lead on Calvin and Jeremy. It wasn’t like he could just slip the Lotus back into Mason’s garage, apologize for his failure and hope for little more than harsh language. There was a real good chance that even if he did find Jeremy, Mason would kill him. Horton had crossed a line back in Mason’s office and it was too late to retrace his steps. He closed his eyes and lay his head back against the seat. “I’m so completely fucked.”

  He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of the car, deep black like everything else in this ride. It was like driving a sliver of death. He liked that. A high-tech version of the Reaper’s horse. Hi-tech… How the fuck had Calvin screwed with the On-Star? And why was it sending a signal from here? Horton looked out the window again. What was here? A garage, a couple of old gas pumps and a trash barrel…

  “Fuck me.”

  He jumped out of the car and ran over to the trash barrel. Sure enough, staring up at him from the depths was a blinking red eye. He reached in and hefted the black box and the flashlight battery Calvin had wired to it. Horton smiled, couldn’t help it. “Oh, you slick bastard.” He was still going to have to kill Father John Calvin, but he wasn’t going to like it much. The Padre was just plain cool, that’s all there was to it.

  He yanked one of the wires and the red eye winked out. Of course, he wouldn’t even get the chance to feel bad about wasting Calvin if he never found him. Square one, again, and it sucked. Horton turned the black box over in his hand. A piece of folded paper was affixed to the bottom. He pulled it off with a stretch of pink chewing gum and unfolded the note. Horton’s eyes grew large. “I can’t believe this shit.”

  Howdy Officer,

 

  It would be useless to instruct you not to follow. Bloodhounds do that for which they are bred, and you are a police dog through and through. Just know: I’ve done what I’ve done for the sake of the Innocent. Don’t ruin it by showing up too soon. I don’t think you will be able to find me without the help of your little toy, anyway. Just in case you do get the scent, however, I must ask you to keep your distance until I’ve finished my work. When it’s over, if we survive, I’ll contact you and tell you where to find him…

  Remember: Jesus died for his own sins, not mine. (Saw that on a T-shirt for a band called the Crucifux)

  PS.

  Don’t give the Innocent back to the Master. It’s just another prison term. In some ways, worse than the one he’s in now.

  Horton frowned down at the note, re-read it, then crumpled it up and stuck it in his pocket. He wasn’t sure why he kept it, Calvin had been careful not use to names or designations that might help if Horton got the police involved. It just made him feel better, as if he’d collected a clue, a breadcrumb.

  He walked back to the Lotus and spread a large folding map of the Northern United States and Canada across the hood. He located his position in the upper-middle of the Michigan mitten and wondered how far ahead Calvin could be, where he could be going. After a minute of searching, his face crumpled and he slammed an open palm down on the map, the metal beneath throwing a loud bang! into the quiet morning. He had nothing to go on. But he knew who might. Horton flipped open his cell phone and dialed.

  Miles away, a cellular phone rang in the pocket of a monster dozing against the wall in a darkened kitchen. It rubbed its eyes, brushing away the sleep crumbs and dried gore that tried to glue its eyelashes shut. Its clothes were spattered with bits of bone and gobbets of flesh. Its skin was pale white where not covered with tacky, brown blood. It scowled at the insistent chirp of the phone and considered striking its own hip pocket with the encrusted crab mallet that lay next to it on the floor. Then it remembered its identity and the circumstances under which it now operated. The monster pulled the phone out of its pocket and flipped it open. A strip of flesh dropped from the corner of its mouth. Its face was dead, an emotionless slab, but its voice was creamy-dreamy.

  “Frank Mason—hello?”

  He listened, face as blank as a computer screen in “power-save” mode, but his mind processed, processed. He responded in the appropriate blanks with grunts, affirmatives, negatives. When Horton finished bringing him up to speed, Mason said, “Check into a motel or something and get some sleep. I’ll make some inquiries. Wait for my instructions.” Mason thumbed the “end” button and stared at the screen of his phone, the blue glow casting his face in a corpse light that was just too perfect a fit. He activated the phone’s memory and keyed in the letters “G” “O” and “D”. After a full three minutes of dead air, no clicks or ringing, a filtered, sexless voice answered.

  “Pronto?”

  “This is Mason. Give me a relay.”

  “Si,” the voice answered and the phone went dead.

  Mason stood up and shoved the cell phone back into his pocket. He eased his way around the Jackson Pollock that had once been his housekeeper and exited the kitchen. He’d deal with that mess later. Now, he had to wait for the call. It was their only chance. If his special contacts couldn’t help him now, there was no way to catch up with Calvin and his son. He could activate every single member of his domestic business network, both legit and otherwise, instructing them to keep an eye out for his son and the bastard priest, but that would likely do little more than alert Mason’s enemies and potential pretenders to the thrown of his vulnerability.

  Mason made his way through the house, leaving a trail of dark drips on the hardwood floors and footprints on the hand-carved oriental carpets. He clomped up the stairs, a graceless automaton. The sun’s first rays slanted in diagonal gold bars through the windows in the upstairs hallway. Mason walked through them, light then dark then light, the horrors of his features outlined then blurred, outlined, blurred. He settled into his office chair, reached out and placed his right hand on the phone. Mason was still. Mason waited.