The Tomb (Scarrett & Kramer Book 3)

by Neil Carstairs

  He slowed to let a delivery truck pull a u-turn, and considered stopping off at Rosie’s Coffee Shop for a box of donuts. He knew he should put that idea firmly out of his mind. His wife would throw a fit if she knew he’d bucked the strict diet she had him on. His younger self’s muscles were now edging into a well-defined middle-aged spread. Hug knew he needed to do something about his expanding waistline, but the rabbit food diet caused more stress than he wanted to admit to Donna. Maybe I could share the box around the station house. Then I could have the one and tell Donna there was a reason for eating it. A birthday or an anniversary or National Eat a Donut Day.

  He pulled up outside Rosie’s and looked at the display of cakes in the window. His stomach rumbled. Decisions, decisions. The dispatcher’s voice came over the radio and made his mind up for him.

  “All units respond, reports of shots fired at Economy Motel.”

  Hug stared at the radio. Economy Motel. That’s where Larssen and Fredricks had gone. He reached for the radio mike to call in when the next message chilled his heart.

  “Officers reported down. Officers down.”

  Hug keyed the radio. “Haverson, responding to Economy Motel.”

  He gunned the engine of the cruiser, slapped on the lights and siren and swung the car in a tight turn across the two lines of traffic that came skidding to a halt. Other voices came out of the radio. Lavonia didn’t have that big a police department, and some of those responding were volunteer firefighters and paramedics. Hug had the advantage over them, a fast car and already closer than anyone else. He took the final turn into the motel parking lot and almost killed a couple of civilians standing in his way. Before he even thought about turning the engine off and getting out one of them came to his window and said,

  “They’re in a red Honda HR-V.”

  “Who are?” Hug wanted to find his deputies.

  “The shooters. Three of them. Two men and a woman. They shot your people and a waitress and you only just missed them.”

  Hug remembered a red car pulling out ahead of him when he made the turn. He could see a bunch of folks up on the walkway and had the agony of deciding whether to got to his people or pursue the suspects. Pursuit won. He couldn’t leave the town exposed to a bunch of gun-happy perps.

  Hug drove the cruiser out of the lot and floored the accelerator. The big engine roared as if it knew the hunt was on. Hug got on the radio and said, “Haverson in pursuit of red Honda HR-V carrying three suspects in Economy Motel shooting. Eastbound on Jones Street.”

  Hug caught a glimpse of a red car ahead before it took a hard-right turn. He slowed, making sure the cruiser took the turn safely before calling in the change of direction. The Honda’s stop lights flared bright red. Hug frowned, reaching down to make sure his gun was accessible. They’d stopped. Why?

  Something big and dark landed on the hood of the cruiser, driving the nose down into the road. Hug’s head hit the ceiling as the car bounced wildly for a moment. The windshield frosted, and his vision became a cocoon of white wrapped around the dark interior of the vehicle. Hug stared, trying to make sense of what had happened, as the fragmented glass bulged inwards. Claws, thick and curved and black, cut through the laminated glass and peeled open the windshield. Hug saw a pair of yellow eyes study him, the pupils vertical like a cat’s. The view of the eyes disappeared as a twisted hand pushed in at him.

  It couldn’t reach. Hug’s long body meant he kept the seat back at close to maximum and that saved Hug’s life as claws clashed together inches from his face. A hot gust of breath entered the car as the thing on the hood snorted in anger. With his heart racing, Hug remembered the .45 Magnum holstered on his belt. As the clawed hand retreated, he drew the gun and fired into an unblinking eye. He saw the organ pop, and the creature screamed in pain, lashing at the remains of the windshield. It caved in, sparking Hug into action. He grabbed the pump-action shotgun off the rack between him and the passenger seat and rolled out of the car.

  Hug scuttled a dozen yards away until he felt safe. Looking back, he saw the crimson-skinned beast trapped where its lower limbs had gone through the cruiser’s hood. It couldn’t free itself from the jagged metal or the pain in its eye. Hug shoved the Magnum back into its holster and released the safety on the shotgun. He walked half-a-dozen paces and fired into the thing’s skull, cutting it in half. Brains and blood splashed noisily onto the road as the creature died with a death rattle that sounded like a rock slide.

  Jesus Christ.

  “Having trouble, Chief?”

  Hug looked up and saw a good-old-boy standing outside Dexter’s Auto Repair Shop. He nodded, pointed at the dead thing and said, “Ever seen one of those before?”

  “Nope,” Dexter said. “But it reminds me of my mother-in-law.”

  The old man cackled like he’d told the best joke in the world. Hug ignored him. The red Honda still sat at the end of the road, exhaust fumes drifting up. The occupants were looking back at him. Hug said, “Dexter? Do you have a gun in your office?”

  “Sure do,” the old man said.

  “That Honda’s got three folks aboard who are suspects in the shooting of Ingrid Larssen and Larry Fredricks.”

  Dexter spat and said, “Ingrid and Larry? They okay?”

  “I don’t know, but I fear the worst.” Hug felt weary as he thought of having to tell their families the bad news.

  “I’ll go get it,” Dexter said.

  As the old man trotted into the building, Hug walked a few yards towards the Honda. He stopped. Part of him hoped they would drive away. The folks in the car had shot two cops already; a third wouldn’t bother them one bit. The Honda didn’t move. Hug sighed and started towards them again.

  He shivered. No, he didn’t shiver. The ground did. Between Hug and the Honda, the blacktop of the road surface bulged upwards. A spider’s web of cracks appeared and pieces of asphalt tumbled away from the centre. Hug took a step back. The road broke apart. Gravel and sand and dirt spilled in a torrent from the beast that rose before him. Hug saw something shaped like a man, fifteen-feet-tall with knotted muscles and thick body hair. Its face reminded him of a primate with a mouth lined by yellow tusks. The creature came at him.

  Hug turned and ran. The cruiser, laden with a crimson-skinned corpse, looked like a good place to hide behind. Hug got to it a fraction ahead of the thing chasing him, diving behind it as a huge hand grasped the vehicle and pushed it aside as if it were a child’s toy. Tyres screeched in protest, and so did Hug, as the cruiser dragged across his legs. He rolled with it, heard the pop of his knee and the snap of the tibia and fibula in his right leg. Pain washed out his vision in a blur of white. On his back, unable to move, Hug got one shot off from the pump-action that opened a wound in the creature’s side. For a moment, Hug thought it was enough. Then the beast reached down and ripped the shotgun from his hands.

  A gun fired off to Hug’s right. Dexter, returning from the repair shop and thinking a little popgun like the one he held could damage a creature the size of a semi-truck. Hug wanted to tell Dexter to run, but it was too late. The beast lifted the cruiser and threw it at the old man. The vehicle turned once in the air and landed on Dexter, a crushing impact that burst all four tyres and squashed the old man into ragged patterns of blood and tissue.

  Fuck.

  Hug tried to crawl away, digging his nails into the road surface. A shadow loomed above him and a fist closed upon his body. The creature lifted Hug from the ground and studied him for a moment. Hug remembered his Magnum. His hand closed on an empty holster. Hug stared down in horror. He could see the weapon lying on the road so far out of reach he could have wept.

  Somewhere off in the distance Hug could hear sirens approaching. Too late. Way too late. Hug closed his eyes as the beast reached out and ripped off his head.

  ***

  Itzel watched the cop’s headless body fall to the ground. Silence filled the car. Even Yancha seemed shocked by the goddess’s intervention. As the golem stalked towar
ds the main highway, Itzel said, “Reverse.”

  Ramon stared at her. “What?”

  “Reverse. Now.” She released her seat belt as Ramon guided the car back up the road, he steered carefully around the crater caused by the emerging golem and brought the car to a halt close to the cop’s body.

  Itzel hopped out. The sirens were loud enough to scare her, but she figured the golem would hold them for at least a couple of minutes up at the junction. She retrieved the shotgun first, and then the fallen Magnum. Tossing them into the front of the Honda, Itzel risked a quick dash to the police cruiser. The keys were still in the ignition and she grabbed the fob, testing the four keys that hung from it on the locked cabinet positioned between the driver and passenger seat. The third try opened it. Itzel pulled out three boxes of ammunition for the Magnum and another three for the shotgun. She also found a spare Magnum. With the gun and boxes cradled in her arms, Itzel reached the Honda as the sound of gunfire came from up on the highway. She threw ammunition and guns into the footwell as she fell into the hire car.

  Ramon didn’t need any orders to get them out of there. He clipped the crater as the Honda accelerated down the road, bouncing them around like toys in a box. He hung a left at the end of the road and Itzel banged her head on her door as the car almost rolled over. “Slow down,” she shouted above the noise of the engine. “I don’t want to die in a crash after we survived all that shit.”

  Ramon eased his foot off the accelerator, still wide-eyed from the last few minutes. He checked the mirrors and said, “All clear. Where do we go now?”

  “Head out of town, find a quiet road where we can stop and think.” Itzel needed a drink, her voice sounded hoarse with fear.

  From the rear seat, Yancha said, “I told you she would save us.”

  Fifteen minutes later they were seven miles out of town on a country road that looked like it had no end. Ramon parked the Honda with two wheels up on the grass alongside a drainage ditch. No-one spoke as Itzel checked the load on the guns she retrieved. Itzel topped up the pump-action and loaded up the Magnums. She gave one to Ramon and kept the other for herself. The shotgun stayed with her as well. Itzel didn’t trust Yancha any longer, and the less weaponry he had, the better.

  Itzel got out of the car and walked a few yards away. Birdsong reached her from nearby trees. She looked into the ditch. A thin layer of water covered a bed all silted up with run-off from the fields, and reeds grew in haphazard clumps. Beyond the ditch lay a rough pasture field that ran on to another line of trees a half-mile away. Itzel heard the clunk of a door opening, and a moment later Ramon stood next to her.

  “What now?” he asked.

  Itzel shrugged. She looked back at the Honda and the silhouette of Yancha on the back seat. “I’m not in charge,” she said.

  “Yes, you are,” Ramon kept his voice low. “Yancha acts without thought. You don’t. None of this would have happened if you were still in charge.”

  “But I’m not.” Itzel turned away, hands in pockets, and tried to ignore Ramon.

  “We’re screwed, aren’t we?” Ramon asked.

  “If you mean we can’t drive to the airport in a car that has already been identified by the police then yes, we are screwed.”

  Ramon sighed and kicked a clump of dead grass into the ditch. Itzel watched it settle into the water, sinking slowly beneath the surface like her hopes. Yancha still sat in the car, no doubt stroking the statuette like a sex object. Itzel prayed that the goddess would take offence at being used like that and turn Yancha into a pile of ash.

  “Car coming,” Ramon said.

  Itzel looked in the direction Ramon pointed. The road they were on ran arrow straight for miles, and she could see the flash of reflected sunlight off glass and metal. It gave her an idea. “Pop the hood up on the car and get Yancha out.”

  The vehicle resolved itself into a battered blue Ford pick-up. It slowed to a stop as the driver saw the three of them standing at the front of the Honda and looking at the engine. The driver turned out to be a kid in his late teens, his round face covered in freckles as he leaned out of the driver’s window and said, “Having trouble?”

  “It died on us,” Itzel said. “Do you know anything about cars?”

  The kid laughed and hopped out of the pick-up. “Not these modern imports.” He jerked a thumb at the Ford. “That’s my Grandpa’s, and it’s old enough that if it breaks, it can be fixed.”

  He stopped at the Honda, looked at the engine and whistled. “Man, look how clean that is. These cars are all electronics and engine management systems now. If they break down, you have to...”

  Blam.

  The kid hit the road hard, a chunk of his skull missing. Itzel wiped drops of blood from her face as Yancha lowered his gun. “Why did you do that?”

  “He’s no use to us,” Yancha said, and then added. “Ramon, help me dump his body in the drain. We can take his pick-up to the airport to meet the High Priest.”

  Itzel watched the two men lug the kid’s body and drop it into the shallow water. They debated what to do with the Honda and ended up transferring the guns and goddess over to the Ford before Ramon drove the Honda close enough to the bank of the drain that when he hopped out the car continued its slow roll into the water. It began to settle into the soft mud, and after a couple of minutes Itzel thought that a passing driver might not even notice it. At least she hoped that would be the case.

  “See,” Yancha said, as they climbed into the pick-up. “I can make decisions and give orders as well as you and when we meet the High Priest it will be me he congratulates.”

  Itzel made sure that Ramon stuck to the speed limit as they drove to Toccoa Airport. She sat between Yancha and Ramon, feeling exposed as they drove through Lavonia again. Cop cars had flooded the area. Town Police, County Sheriff and State Troopers. Itzel wouldn’t have been surprised to see the National Guard out as well. She watched the cops with a feeling of dread until the town disappeared behind them and Ramon joined the interstate.

  “Nothing will happen to us,” Yancha said.

  Itzel ignored him. The weight of the Magnum pressed into her waist, a reminder of how easy it would be to kill Yancha. Instead, she rested her head back, closed her eyes and planned what she would say to the High Priest.

  ***

  If she felt exposed in the pick-up, then arriving at the airport made Itzel’s skin crawl. She didn’t know quite what to make of the terminal building. The place looked more like the front of a mom-and-pop store in small town America than the hub of an airport. The High Priest’s Lear jet sat out on the parking apron. He’d arrived a couple of hours before them, and now, in the company of an airport worker, they were being escorted to a conference room where the High Priest awaited them.

  “Here you go,” the worker said in her Southern accent. “We loaned him our boardroom for the afternoon. If you need anything pick up the phone and dial one-hundred.”

  “Thank you,” Itzel said, as Yancha opened the door.

  It had been months since Itzel had last seen the High Priest. He sat facing them at the head of a long table. He wore a Savile Row suit, a French button down shirt and a red silk tie. His shoes were Italian. Itzel, in her sweat stained t-shirt and jeans, felt dirty by comparison. The High Priest looked at them one by one. Itzel could tell from his deepening frown that he wasn’t pleased by what he saw.

  “You have the goddess?” his voice reminded Itzel of a thunderstorm.

  “Yes.” Yancha took the statuette out of the box and carried it reverentially over. He placed it on the table before the High Priest and stepped back. Yancha waited as if expecting praise or gratitude.

  No-one knew the High Priest’s exact age. To Itzel, he looked to be in his mid-forties and with his thick dark hair, tanned complexion and tailored suit presented the perfect image of a successful businessman. But looks could deceive, and Itzel knew his life went back centuries, some said to the time of the Spanish conquest and before. It’s why everyone Itz
el knew paid respects to him. The High Priest had the blessing of the gods. He lived and did not age and across the decades had amassed wealth that some nations would envy.

  Now he lifted the statuette and kissed it before saying to Yancha, “You called upon the goddess for help?”

  “Yes,” Yancha nodded and glanced back to Itzel and Ramon for support. “We were confronted by the police and had to escape. She blessed us with her power.”

  “Is that the case?” the High Priest asked Itzel.

  “The police did come to the motel we were staying in,” she hesitated, “but Yancha overreacted. I’m sure we–”

  “No, that’s a lie.” Yancha stamped towards her in anger and then turned back. “She called them to have me arrested. It was a deliberate attempt to undermine me and go against your order to remove her as leader of this team.”

  “I tire of you,” the High Priest said.

  Both Itzel and Yancha held their breath. Who did he mean? Itzel or Yancha? Or both? For the first-time Itzel noticed three other men in the room. They stood to her left, lined up along the wall, and she knew them in a heartbeat.

  Acolytes.

  Itzel knew these men took pleasure in killing. They weren’t professional like her. They wouldn’t plan. Their kills were brutal, bloody affairs with guns and grenades, knives and garrotting wires. Yancha seemed to have noticed them as well, as if the men had been invisible to them at first until the High Priest wanted them seen. Itzel saw a line of perspiration appear on Yancha’s forehead. Not so cocky now, are you?