by Jim Heskett
He parked in front of the house and studied it. For three minutes, Layne sat and watched, keeping his breaths even and steady, eyes squinting through the falling snow at the windows. As far as he could tell, no one was here.
He slid on a tac vest and armed himself with his dual P320s as he left the car. The long and slow walk across the front yard yielded nothing to make him think he’d find a surprise on the other side of that door.
And, as soon as he entered the house, he confirmed its emptiness.
Layne stood in the kitchen, hands on his hips, shifting in a slow circle. Same old rotary telephone with the extra-long cord hanging on the wall. Same eight spices in the spice rack since Layne was in high school. Exact same magnets on the fridge. When they were young and traveled often, they would collect magnets from various places, to make the fridge a sort of travel journal. It’s what inspired Layne to start collecting magnets from the national parks he’d visited.
But nothing stood out to him as odd or unusual. Everything in this house was terribly usual. Memories bristled below the surface of every object, but nothing jumped out. Strange for a house to feel familiar and alien at the same time.
Layne had nowhere to go, and he had no answers. The Disciples were up to something, and it involved using this mountain town as cover. Layne still hadn’t found “Shotgun Mine,” if it even existed. He was starting to believe that had been nothing more than a distraction. And it had worked, hadn’t it? His best friend from high school had been murdered, and Layne was no closer to answers than he had been days ago.
He strolled through the kitchen and a black mark near the base of the fridge caught his eye. A few days after moving here, Layne had helped his mother and older brother move the fridge into place. The black mark had come when it had scraped against a cabinet that used to sit adjacent to the refrigerator. Layne remembered causing that scrape. He remembered being terrified of what George would think when he got home that day. And also that George had never noticed the scrape on the fridge. At some point, the cabinet had been sold or donated, revealing the scrape. Did George notice the blemish on this ancient refrigerator then?
Layne wandered through the rest of the house and then sat down in his father’s chair. As soon as his cheeks hit the cushion, he could tell something was off about it. It felt… too tall, or something. Like the first time you sit after stuffing a significant number of receipts or bills into a wallet. The angle wasn’t right.
So, Layne raised up and dug a hand underneath the cushion. He came back with a manilla envelope, faded and with frayed edges.
Layne held it up to the light and turned it, checking for any markers of poison or any sort of trap that might spring when he opened the envelope. But he heard no ticking or vibrating from within, and there was no evidence of trickery on the outside.
When he opened the flap and saw the contents, his jaw dropped. A collection of a dozen Polaroid pictures of his daughter, Cameron.
Most of them were taken of her at day care, but a couple showed her playing on a sidewalk. Layne recognized that sidewalk. It was near Inessa’s house in Broomfield.
Was George Parrish taking pictures of his granddaughter? Layne didn’t think so. The pictures contained a measure of menace to them, because it seemed like the photographer had been hiding. Not a single snapshot of his daughter featured her looking at the camera.
She didn’t know she was having her picture taken.
A mixture of black terror and crimson anger bubbled up from Layne’s toes.
“What is this?” he growled as he scanned through the pictures again. There were no dates or any other writing on them, and no note in the envelope to explain their purpose. But Layne had a strong suspicion, and if true, it would answer many of the questions rumbling inside his head from the last few days.
Two things happened at once: Layne’s phone chirped in his pocket, and headlights entered the cabin’s driveway. Layne readied his pistols and slinked over to the window, ignoring the phone for now. He saw a driver for the taxi-alternative Thum drop George off, and George tapped on his phone as he said goodbye. Then, he headed for the house.
Layne holstered his weapon, dug his phone out, and watched his father navigate the snowy front yard to reach the porch. Now he checked the phone to see Harry’s picture on the screen.
“K-Books,” Layne said as he accepted the call. “What’s going on, man?”
“We have a problem.”
34
A few minutes before he called Layne, Harry had made a difficult discovery. While keeping an eye on things in Shotgun, he’d taken an interest in the Big Cat Sanctuary. Something had seemed to be brewing there for a few days, but Harry couldn’t spot anything for certain. Lots of comings and goings, lots of activity.
He’d been trying to hack into their on-site surveillance feed, but had found it a challenging task. These people had top-notch security, but Harry Boukadakis had never met a security he couldn’t breach. Eventually.
And now, he’d done it, or had completed the first part of his invasion, at least. There were two feeds: the internal building feed, plus the main one from the cameras outside. Harry accessed the outside feeds, but hadn’t yet hacked into the inside feeds. The architecture of the security code for the internal feeds was completely different, so Harry had to start from square one again.
He tapped the Enter key and the outside feeds sprang to life in miniature windows on his desktop computer. Grainy, black and white, some cameras fixed, and some rotated along a horizontal path.
And when he could see onto the grounds, he gasped. He didn’t see a single human out, interacting with the cats. No sanctuary employees, no tourists, no nothing. Completely devoid of any evidence of human existence.
But he did see a male tiger hanging out in the parking lot, sniffing around the tires of a single car parked in front of the office. His meaty paws shuffled snow as he systematically meandered around all four sides of the car, sniffing it like a drug dog hunting for cocaine.
“This is not good,” Harry said aloud to his office. He stood to stretch his legs and take a few moments to wrap his brain around the situation. As he did, he spotted a collection of his Dungeons & Dragons guidebooks littering the floor, so he picked them all up and sorted them back on their shelves.
When he returned to his desk, the tiger was still there, now with its whiskered face pointed up, letting snow collect on its nose. Harry had hoped he might have been experiencing a freak hallucination, maybe because of something in the kombucha tea his wife had served him an hour ago. But no, he hadn’t been dosed. There really was a lethal animal hanging out in the parking lot, as if waiting for a ride back to town.
Harry switched the feeds around until he could see more of the enclosures. Several cats were still caged, but he could definitely see one gate had been left open, either accidentally or on purpose. And, aside from that tiger in the front area, he spied a lion not too far from there, rolling in a bank of snow.
Multiple cats. No humans around to corral them.
“Shit.”
Harry dialed Layne immediately.
“K-Books,” Layne said as he answered the call. “What’s going on?”
“We have a problem. A serious one. Or, it may not be that serious. I can’t tell yet. But I just saw something that could throw a wrench into whatever happens next.”
“Make it fast, Harry. I’m about to have company.”
“Bad company?”
Layne paused. “More like the one man who probably has all the answers to what’s going on here is about to walk into this room, and I’m out of time to keep giving him the benefit of the doubt.”
Harry didn’t understand, but he didn’t want to string out the conversation any longer than necessary. “Right. You know that Big Cat Sanctuary north of town? A couple cats got out.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said, too. As far as I can tell, there’s not a single person there to deal with it locally.”
“Hmm. Is the BCS closed today?”
Harry instinctively nodded, even though Layne couldn’t see it. “According to their website, they’re doing maintenance for the next couple days so it’s closed to the public, but the park shouldn’t be completely devoid of people, right? They should have people on site 24-7 to care for the animals. I’ve seen no employees on the cameras, though.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Hold on, Boy Scout. I’m not done. There’s a good chance this cat situation will amount to nothing, and there’s something else you need to know: I plugged into a satellite feed of the region, and you’ve got new 'bad' company on the way.”
“What does that mean?”
Harry tabbed over to the satellite feed so he could send a screenshot to Layne. “Trucks, vans, and other big cars are headed toward Shotgun. Looks like a caravan of at least six vehicles on their way.”
“Cops? Feds?”
“I don’t think so,” Harry said. “I can’t see anything beyond heat signatures, but I have to assume…”
“It’s probably Disciples. How far out are they?”
“Maybe ninety minutes. You need to spend that time getting ready, not messing with these cats.”
Layne sighed. “So what’s the solution with the sanctuary?”
“The BCS has a series of drones with sedative darts. I can deploy them and take care of our stragglers. It’s one lion and one tiger.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard about the drones before. And I can hear a 'but' in your tone, Harry.”
Harry winced. “Yeah, the thing is, I’m still working on hacking into some parts of their system. I’m confident once I can, I’ll shut the gates and get those drones out. It’s only two cats. But it might take me another thirty or forty-five minutes of code-monkeying to get the access I need.”
“Do you feel good about it?”
Harry grinned. “Are you questioning my skills, Layne Parrish?”
“Of course not, Harry Boukadakis.”
“This isn’t anything I can’t handle. I just need to put my head down and get to work.”
“Then if you feel good about it, I’ll leave it in your hands. I can only be in one place at a time.”
“I think I can manage this. With the heavy snowfall, there’s a good chance these cats will go back into their enclosures, anyway. I’m sure they prefer warm and dry, with a roof over their heads, as opposed to wandering around in a snowstorm.”
“What do you need from me?”
Harry sat back in his chair, listening to it squeak as he considered. “I’m not sure. Stay alive, for one. And stay somewhere I can reach you.”
“I can do the first, but this town is lousy with areas of no cell coverage. And if this 'bad company' is what we think it is, I might be a little busy for the rest of the evening.”
Harry sighed. “If you still worked for the team, you’d have a satellite phone that worked everywhere.”
“Right, and I don’t work for the team any longer. So I’m going to do the best I can with what I have, and I’ll send you a case of your favorite whiskey when it’s all over.”
“My favorite? I’m going to have to think on that.”
“Think hard. If something changes, let me know.”
“Roger that, Boy Scout. Good luck.”
“Roger that, K-Books. Good luck to you, too.”
The call ended, and Harry sighed at his computer monitor. How in the holy hell would he pull this off?
35
Layne composed a hastily worded text message to Molly Waffles. If there were threats inbound, then she needed to know. The whole town needed to know. Layne considered the small number of cops and vets and other armed citizens among the residents. They deserved a chance to defend themselves.
Layne didn’t know for sure that the caravan was a kill squad, but he had to assume so. Why would they come all together at the same time if not? And he trusted Molly to spread the information to the right people, to get them ready for whatever came next.
Layne hit send right as the front door opened. When George Parrish appeared in the doorway, he didn’t seem surprised to see his son. Layne thought he’d expected it.
“Haven’t seen you much in a couple days,” George said.
“There’s been a standing order to shoot me on sight. I thought it would be smarter to keep a low profile and keep stray bullets out of your path.”
George showed little reaction to this. “I’m sorry, son.”
Layne checked his watch. According to Harry, he had less than two hours before more members of the Disciples arrived in town, and he had several things to finish before then.
Then, George’s words sank in. Layne couldn’t remember if he had ever heard his father apologize with such sincerity before. It caused a very strange sort of discordant sensation in Layne’s head, but he couldn’t say why.
“What are you sorry about, Dad?”
The old man took a step forward, and Layne could see his reddened eyes, and the wetness on his cheeks. Layne didn’t think he’d ever seen his father cry, either. Not even when Layne’s grandma and grandpa had passed away. Back then, his father had said something about how they’d had long lives and were ready to go. Hearing about how Gram and Gramps had been one foot in the grave for years didn’t do much to help pre-teen Layney sort his feelings about the matter.
“I’ve had enough,” George said, and then he stumbled into a chair opposite the couch. “I can tell you what I know. And I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to do it. My memory, sometimes it comes and goes.”
Layne folded his arms in front of his chest as he stood opposite his father. “I’m listening.”
“That man getting killed? I accidentally saw it happen, so they've had me on their hook since. I drove his car away from town so Sheriff Bob wouldn’t find it, because they made me. In a little town like this, someone notices a car parked in a lot for days. But it’s been going on for much longer than that.”
“What’s been going on?”
“Blackmail. Extortion. I don’t know the right name. They’ve been threatening and paying off half the town to keep secrets from the other half of the town for at least a year now. Maybe two years, I don’t remember. Some of us know more than others. I’m retired, with nothing better to do than to keep my eyes on the town, so I saw a lot. And it’s been a long time before that since I was innocent, that’s for sure.”
Layne noted that when his father was speaking with confidence and conviction, his stroke symptoms lessened and his speech became clearer. Not like he used to be, exactly, but Layne could feel a little of that old George Parrish tone. One bolstered by self-confidence and authority, something his dad hadn’t displayed yet since their reunion.
“They took an interest in me,” George said. “And paid me to keep quiet at first. I have a fixed income; how could I say no to earning money to sit around and do nothing?”
Layne wanted to explain the way to properly say no would involve telling the FBI this info. But, he held his tongue. He knew why the Disciples had taken an interest in him. It was because they knew the name Layne Parrish. Maybe it had been a coincidence they had picked this town in the first place, maybe not. But once they knew Layne Parrish’s father lived here, nothing could have stopped them.
“As far as I could tell,” George said, “they weren’t doing anything bad. At first. I thought there were probably going to start buying up property and turn the town into some revitalized thing or whatever the hell they keep doing in Denver. Revamping the neighborhoods and whatnot. Gentrification.”
“Don’t pretend you believed they had innocent intentions.”
George glowered at the floor. “Maybe not. But I wasn’t sure. And they don’t invite me to their damn planning meetings, son. I never knew as much as you thought I did. I don’t even know their names, or where they meet, or anything like that. But now I’ve told you what I know. What do we do next?”
Layne shook his head as he slid onto
the coffee table, only inches away from his dad. “You’re leaving something out. I’ve done this more than once, Dad, and I have a pretty good lie detector up here.” He tapped at his temple, all while maintaining eye contact with George. He scooted even closer. “Cut the shit. Tell me everything.”
George lowered his eyes. “It wasn’t bad at first, but it turned dark. They weren’t paying me anymore. But they did still want me quiet, so they started sending me pictures of Cameron.”
A vice grip tightened around Layne’s spine. The Polaroid pictures he had found in the manilla envelope. Now, George had confirmed Layne’s suspicions. “My daughter is being threatened, and you didn’t think to tell me?”
“She’s my granddaughter, too. It’s not only your job to keep her safe.”
Layne gritted his teeth and studied the old man. For the five years Cameron Parrish had been on this earth, George Parrish hadn’t taken much interest in her. He’d never before announced his intention to contribute to her well-being.
Layne didn’t know what to believe.
But, he did believe the regret in his dad’s eyes. Seeing contrition and sadness on his father’s face made Layne feel the strangest sinking in the pit of his stomach.
“Where can I find them?” Layne asked. “What are they doing in that mine?”
George shrugged with one shoulder.
“I need more. I can’t do anything with this info.”
“You want to know about Shotgun Mine?”
Layne’s ears perked up. After days of searching, George had finally acknowledged its existence. Layne’s first potential ally who had done anything above dismissing the notion out of hand. “Yes, I do.”
George labored to his feet and then retrieved a cane sitting next to the television. “I may forget to soak my damn dentures half the time, but I know exactly where the key to it is. Let’s go.”
36
