“Relax. These are the people we came to see.”
“I’m not the one you need to be asking to relax,” Barb replied.
“Is Pastor White about?” Conor asked. “My name is Conor. I was here the other day with Johnny Jacks. I was here when those greedy bastards…excuse me…undesirables tried to go through the soup line with the big pots.”
The men, wearing a mixture of hunting clothes and work clothes, did not lower their guns. “He’s in the church,” one of the men responded. “He likes to start his day alone with the Lord.”
“I’m not here to harm you folks. I’m a friend. Your guns are making my daughter here a little nervous. Think you might be able to lower them? We’ll stay where we’re at until the pastor gets out here and we’ll keep our hands where you can see them. No sudden moves.”
There was some discussion among the men. “Fair enough,” one eventually said and each man lowered his weapon to the ground. Conor noticed they still maintained a grip that would allow them to raise and shoot if needed. That was smart technique considering the circumstances.
“I can take them now,” Barb whispered. “Maybe all of them.”
“I’m going to put you in time-out if you don’t relax,” Conor said. “Save your killing for the people who deserve it.”
After a few minutes, with no sign of the pastor, Conor called across to the group of men. “How long do the pastor’s morning prayers usually take?”
The men looked at one another before someone took the initiative to reply. “Sometimes it’s a half-hour. Sometimes it’s a couple of hours. Reckon it just depends on what they got to say to each other.”
Barb shot Conor an impatient look. “We can’t sit here all morning. You know it’s best to hit a target early. Especially if it’s a bunch of druggies. They’re used to sleeping late. We can bust in, get the girl, and shoot the vermin in their beds.”
Conor sighed at Barb’s enthusiasm. He vividly recalled a moment when his wife was pregnant with Barb. He told his wife that he wanted a feisty little girl who acted just like him. His wife laughed and told him to be careful what he wished for. That conversation replayed in his head, and he understood that his daughter was both exactly what he asked for and acted just like him. It made her well-suited for this world but sometimes made it difficult for her during more conventional times, like when a flirtatious young man was as likely to get placed in a choke hold as to get a smile back.
“I hate to impose,” Conor said, “but would it be possible that someone might retrieve Pastor White for me? It’s imperative I speak to him as soon as possible.”
“Where’s the fire?” one of the men replied, smiling at his own wit.
“Johnny Jacks’ home was attacked yesterday. His wife is dead and he was shot up pretty bad. His son was beaten nearly to death and his daughter-in-law is missing. My daughter and I were out all night looking for her but didn’t have anything to go on. When we got back to Johnny’s house, his son told us that the men who attacked them were the same folks he saw trying to go through your line with the big bowls.”
The men exchanged glances and conferred. There was some arguing. Some men appeared to feel adamantly that the pastor should not be bothered despite the gravity of whatever Earthly situation was taking place. Others seemed to think that the pastor would want to know. Finally, a man trotted away from the group, running toward the church.
“We’ll fetch him,” a man called.
“Thanks,” Conor replied.
In a few moments the man returned with the pastor, who was also wearing the type of high visibility work clothes used by miners and gas workers, with fluorescent panels and bold reflective stripes. The pastor approached the riders and finally seemed to recognize Conor. When he did, his face softened, though he did not smile.
“They told me Johnny Jacks’ home was attacked.”
Conor nodded.
The pastor shook his head, his clouding face indicating that the news left him unsettled. “How about you all come over here to the shelter and tell me about it.”
“We need to be on the road,” Barb said. “Why can’t we just get the information we need? We’ve wasted enough time sitting here already.”
“You can tie your horses off to that tree over there,” Pastor White said, pointing to a tree near the church, ignoring Barb and her comment.
Conor shot her a glance and saw her body flexing. “That’s one!” she whispered.
“Easy now,” Conor said.
He wouldn’t have been surprised to see her stand in the saddle and spring off onto the pastor’s back. Being ignored and disrespected was not something that sat well with Barb. Conor held a hand up to her, indicating she should relax. They needed to do this in accordance with local custom. They need to join the chief of the tribe around his fire.
Barb reluctantly did as Conor wanted. Her expression reflected her displeasure at what she felt was a waste of valuable time. They tied off their horses and walked with the pastor to the picnic shelter. A fire was going in a cinderblock grill. The never-ending pot of soup was warming off to the side and several folks stood there warming their hands and bodies in the cold, damp morning.
When they joined the group, the pastor explained who Conor was. He didn’t recognize many of the faces, other than the woman named Betty who’d been ladling the soup on his prior visit. They took a seat at a picnic table away from the group.
“What happened at Johnny’s?” the pastor asked.
Conor explained what he and Doc Marty had been doing in the area yesterday, putting up signs as part of a recruiting effort. He explained how they’d found Johnny and his family, but that they’d been unable to find his daughter-in-law. He told them how he’d made the incorrect assumption that the attack was likely the work of the group he’d seen Johnny trading with.
When he explained who Jason revealed as being the real attackers, there was a flurry of chatter and exchanged glances. Betty, the soup-server, seemed hardest hit by that news. Conor looked at Pastor White with confusion.
“Her daughter runs with that trash,” he explained. “She lives with them but she wasn’t here for that escapade with the soup. She doesn’t like to be around her mother and those of us who knew her as a little girl. She feels guilty at what she’s become. Her mother didn’t raise her to be like that. Her church family didn’t raise her to be like that.”
Barb couldn’t handle it any longer. “We need to know where to find them,” she snapped. “The longer we sit here, the longer she’s in the hands of those people. We don’t know what’s happening to her. You know the things they could be doing. We need to get her back.”
The pastor listened without acknowledging or looking at Barb. It irked her but she kept her mouth shut. Finally, he nodded. “They live about four miles from here. Got an old run-down house ain’t fit for a cat to live in. That boy with the mouth, Clark, owns the house. He got it when his granny passed away. It’s on the main road. There’s a big old swimming pool in the front yard and a white Mercedes SUV with all the windows broke out of it.”
Barb stood up abruptly, glaring at the pastor. “Anything else we need to know? Family trees? Regional history? This is taking too long.”
The pastor still refused to look at her, his eyes on the worn surface of the old picnic table. “You just settle yourself down, little missy, and let the grownups talk. I ain’t even sure why you’re here. This is a matter for men.”
“That’s two!” Barb said, holding two fingers up in front of Pastor White’s face.
Conor’s head sagged and he shook his head. He could only do so much. The pastor was digging his own grave here.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” the pastor asked.
Barb leaned forward, resting both palms on the picnic table. She was directly in front of the pastor but he still didn’t meet her eye. When he refused to look up, she took his face in her hand and forcibly raised it to her. “If you hear me saying ‘that’s three,’ I promise it w
ill be the last thing you hear for a while.”
It was said so low that no one beyond their table could have heard it. Still, Conor looked around and every eye was on them. This could turn ugly in an instant. Hell, it was already ugly. It could turn into an outright brawl and any chance of recruiting this group to be a western lookout for the community would be lost.
Pastor White’s hand shot up to Barb’s wrist and he squeezed so hard his knuckles grew white. He was trying to pull her hand away from him but was encountering her powerful strength firsthand.
Conor couldn’t let him hurt his daughter. Sure, she would insist that she could protect herself, but he couldn’t just stand here and watch this. He cleared his throat loudly. Both Barb and the pastor flicked their eyes in his direction and met Conor’s disapproving frown. The two slowly released their grip on each other, their eyes locking again, attempting to finish without words what had nearly gone physical.
Barb spun on her heel and went back to her horse. She was done with this.
“I think I need to go with you,” Pastor White said.
Conor chuckled while shaking his head. “There’s a whole lot of reasons why that is not a good idea.”
“I intend to bring Betty’s daughter home to her,” Pastor White said. “I want to make sure she ain’t hurt in the violence that you two likely bring with you. I ain’t disapproving of it, I know it’s necessary sometimes. But that girl was once part of this church and I feel an obligation to offer her another chance.”
“Suit yourself,” Conor said. “Only you though. I can’t be responsible for all those untrained men of yours running around with guns.”
“That won’t rest easy with them but they’ll accept my decision. I’ll leave the fighting to you two. I’m sure you’re more than capable of handling it without me.”
Conor cleared his throat, seeking a delicate way to broach the subject. “Speaking of fighting, I’m not here to question your beliefs or your attitudes, but you best watch yourself around my daughter. I sense you have a certain attitude about women that’s not sitting well with her. She’s not one to be trifled with. You treat her with respect or she’ll stab you to death with one of your own ribs.”
The pastor shrugged but didn’t react to the comment.
Conor stood. “We leave out of here in five minutes.”
“Can we make it ten?” the pastor asked. “I need to speak with some folks.”
Conor left, shaking his head, and calling back over his shoulder. “Three minutes. My second offer will never be as good as the first.”
The pastor’s men swarmed upon him, wanting answers as to what had transpired. The man disentangled himself from the picnic table, stretching as he got to his feet. “I’m going for a short ride with these folks. You might pray for us. We’ll need it.”
20
Even though an hour had passed since Bryan gave his men permission to raid and loot the town, gunshots rang out. Bryan hadn’t known what to expect. He listened from the bridge for a long time, the world darkening to night, isolating each man in his own pocket of obscurity. From his men came whoops and war cries, cheers of victory. From the victims and the vanquished came cries, screams, and utterances of despair.
Bryan had no desire to run from house to house participating in the melee. This was something he gave his men. It was an offering to them, an effort to buy their cooperation and to bond them as a group. He knew they would do horrific things, things he hadn’t allowed at Douthat Farms. That responsibility would be on him. The blood would be on his hands.
Seeking a place of calm and quiet, he walked down the main street, turning a blind eye to the carnage he'd unleashed. Eventually, he found what seemed to be the stateliest house on Main Street. It was brick, in the federal style, with antique shutters expertly painted in a dark green. The majestic double entry doors were painted a bold red and had brass handles worn smooth beneath hundreds of hands.
Bryan tried the door and found it locked. He let out a long exhale and looked down at his filthy boots planted on the worn brick steps. Then, prompted by some mysterious inspiration, he raised a hand and knocked politely on the door. He lowered his hand back to his side and waited a long time. He was eventually rewarded with the pleasing creak and pop only made by worn wooden floors.
From within, there was a rattle and the clank of a substantial iron bolt being drawn back. The door opened about a foot and a face appeared in the opening. It was a woman, her skin loose as if she'd been fleshy in her prime but now grew sallow from a lack of food. She appeared to be in her early seventies, her curly hair swirling around her head in a wild mane. It was deep black on the ends but a crisp white closer to her head. He was certain she was the kind of woman bothered by that fact each time she looked in the mirror.
“Yes?" she asked, her voice low, proper.
Bryan studied her. "Do you have a fire tonight?"
She looked at him with indecision and a degree of well-warranted fear. She had no inkling of how to respond except with the truth. "Yes, I do."
"May I sit by it?"
The woman hesitated a long time. She didn't know what to do but she also didn't know how to turn him away. As she explored his eyes she no doubt evaluated the consequences of her decision, of a refusal. It occurred to her that, if he wanted to, he could merely push the door and he would be inside. In the end she granted his request, stepping aside and swinging the door open. She offered no welcome or hospitality, just stepped aside as if she had no way to refuse him, knowing she may well have invited her own death upon her.
Bryan did not express any appreciation. He did not wipe his dirty boots upon the rug left there for that very purpose, nor did he offer to take them off. Inside, her house was immaculate even in the apocalypse. It was well decorated with lavish art and antiques. The floors were highly polished antique oak, strewn with Oriental and Persian rugs. Once he was inside the foyer, she shut and locked the door behind him. Acceptance of this single visitor was not an act of surrender.
"Are you alone?" he asked.
“Yes.”
The interior was lit with candles and lamps, a manner of lighting which was likely period correct for the home. It was easy to visualize it that way, newly completed and being proudly displayed to guests by the warm light of oil lamps. Bryan moved forward on his self-guided tour. He examined her belongings, picking up objects of curiosity and turning them in his hands.
On the left was a large room. He squinted into the shadowy interior and found it to be a library. He plucked the flashlight from the pocket of his jacket and flicked it around the room. There was an extensive collection, the shelves covering all the walls and running to the ceiling. It was a mix of old and new, a reader’s library. There were sets with matched bindings and gilded titles.
Though he felt a strong pull of books and wanted to stop, Bryan knew he might spend hours in there and he felt too weary to pursue that interest. Like an old dog with tired bones, he sought the warmth and reassurance of a good fire. He found the fireplace in a formal parlor decorated with historic furniture and ornate stained-glass lamps.
The only light came from the fireplace itself and candles in ornate brass holders. A tall leather wing-backed chair sat close to the fire with a matching stool in front of it. Bryan didn’t think this was where she had been sitting because there was a book and a blanket on the sofa. Without asking permission, he settled himself into the worn chair and felt a burden lift from him.
The woman stared at him, not retaking her seat, perhaps not sure what to do with herself. Should she sit down? Should she run screaming for the back door? Should she grab the revolver tucked between the cushions of the couch, right beside where she’d been sitting when his knock came?
"This was his chair wasn't it?" He was referring to the man he sensed had once sat in this chair.
She nodded.
Bryan put his feet on the stool, feeling for the first time like he should probably remove his boots but he was too weary. Perhap
s as fatigued as he’d ever been. He laid back in the chair, rested his eyes, and basked in the fire warming his face. The next thing he knew, he was asleep.
Bryan woke up feeling well-rested. The feeling was unusual enough in the current state of things that he could not recall the last time he woke up with such a profound feeling of relaxed contentment. He opened his eyes and looked in the direction of the windows. It was daylight. He’s slept through the night.
He experienced a moment of startled comprehension, remembering where he was, and that he was not alone. He whipped his head to the right and found the old woman, apparently the sole resident of the house, still staring at him exactly as she had when he fell asleep nearly twelve hours ago.
He regarded her curiously, uncertain as to why she was still there. He wasn't aware if anyone had seen him come into this house or not. If she had killed him, it was unlikely anyone would even have noticed. She could have easily escaped. Even though she was an older woman and did not have his strength, he had been completely vulnerable in his deep sleep. Just like in the game of Clue, she could have picked up the fireplace poker and bashed his head to pulp.
For some reason, she hadn’t.
Had she sat there and stared at him all night long, just like he was staring back at her now? Had she moved at all? What had she thought about? Had she considered killing him or trying to escape? Perhaps she was too dignified to stoop to murder. Perhaps she was a true Southern gentlewoman, naturally possessing the comportment and dignity to which he strived.
Bryan stood and stretched. The woman watched him like a mouse watching a cat. Her eyes moved down to his waist. Bryan followed her gaze and saw she was staring at his holstered sidearm. He put his hand on it and straightened his belt which had twisted slightly in the night. He looked around and saw his rifle still leaning against the arm of the chair. He picked it up and checked the chamber. Then the safety.
Across the parlor, the elderly woman sat mesmerized by him, her expression a mixture of fear, questioning, and acceptance. Or maybe it was none of those things at all. Maybe the things that passed through her mind, which had likely seen twice as much time on this Earth as his, were things which he was not even capable of pondering.
Masters of Mayhem Page 15
