Chapter 8
“Stay here.” She headed for the gate.
Shana said to her back, “Don’t forget, horror movie channel stuff: Texas Chainsaw Massacre; The Hills Have. . . .”
The men stepped onto the vestige of service road and came to the gate. Both men were at least 6’8”, four inches taller than Michael, maybe 250 pounds of muscle, tanned to the point of being leathery, and were in their late twenties or early thirties. They wore camouflage hunting vests to go with camouflage pants and military boots. Bulging biceps and thick forearms were covered with identical tattoos designed to make it even more difficult to tell them apart. They were twins. Each one of them also had a tattoo of chain links circling his neck. As they got closer, she spotted a small tattoo on the back of their right hands between their thumbs and index fingers. Compared to the other gaudy shapes, creatures and symbols, it resembled not much more than a spilled glop of black ink that had seeped under their skin.
They both sported military-grade crew cuts and scowling faces as threatening as those true believers at the Crowley farm. Her gaze focused on the full pockets of their hunting vests.
She reached the gate first, took a deep breath and grabbed hold of the metal bar that crossed the road. “What was all that shooting about?”
“This is private property,” one of the twins growled. “Clear off.”
The other twin, his jaw clenched, started to raise his gun, a Colt IAR6940. A glance from his brother stopped him.
The small tattoo was a canine head. It could be a wolf. It had the earmarks of a military emblem. They had served in the same unit at one time.
The other twin held a SIG556 Classic.
“This is a service road. It’s public domain. And those are not hunting rifles.”
“What do you know about rifles?”
“You’re holding a Colt IAR, and your brother has a SIG Classic.”
The twins glanced at each other again.
The one who hadn’t yet said anything stepped up to the gate and cocked his rifle. “Who said we were hunting?”
They sounded the same, too. If these two came after her in the dark with both of them growling at the same time, it would be impossible to locate either one of them.
She held tightly to the gate to keep from stepping back and checked to see if they were carrying machetes. The twin with the Colt had one in its sheath strapped to his left leg.
“I’m the new Sheriff in Dominion.” That sounded like a line from a bad western, not a horror movie. “You’re going to have to show me permits for those rifles.”
This time they glared at each other for a moment as if they were going to fight. The one holding the Sig Sauer started to raise it.
“Officially,” a man said as he emerged from the trees, “I don’t believe you are the new Sheriff until Monday.”
He nodded at the twins.
They backed off a few steps.
In his late forties and the same height as Shana, his black hair was the same crew cut as the twins. He was skeletal thin, though there was considerable strength in his tough, sinewy build. He was also as leathery as his indistinguishable subordinates. His large, dark eyes, hidden in shadows on each side of his long, hooked nose, presented a predatory-bird countenance. The mind behind those eyes was experienced, comfortable and thorough at assessing people and situations, recognizing strengths and weaknesses and, most important to him, of what use or threat they would be to him. He held himself erect, his shoulders back. He was confident, someone used to giving orders and being obeyed.
“Nonetheless,” he said with a slight bow to her, “I think it would be prudent if we respected your claim of authority, even if it is three days premature.”
He nodded again. The twins lowered their rifles after first reengaging the safeties.
She glanced back at Shana, one frightened goddess who probably wished she really did have supernatural powers.
The man came to the gate. “My name is Morton Colter. Joan McGowan, I’m very pleased to meet you.” He held out his hand, which had the same black tattoo of a howling hound on it in exactly the same spot. He nodded toward her daughter. “And Shana, too, of course.”
Wear Something Red Page 8
