Pack

by Mike Bockoven

  The bubbling goo got closer and closer until it blocked out all else—a fiery face of rage staring at the wolf. It exploded.

  Dave woke up hard as Kenny was shaking his shoulder. He looked as white as a sheet.

  “Dave, man, get up right now,” he said. “Help me find everyone. You need to hear this right now, man.”

  Kenny’s voice was low and panicked, all pretense of the fun-loving motor mouth gone. His heart beating so fast he feared for his health, Dave stood up, took a few deep breaths and steadied himself.

  “What’s going on?”

  “There’s a message on my phone,” Kenny said. “It’s from them.”

  •••

  Conall took the longest to find. He was near the Home and Garden center, staring at the fish.

  “Why in the name of Mary do they sell fish?” he asked Kenny, who was racing around the store gathering everyone. “As pets? Are they a pet store too? What is this place?”

  Kenny eventually got the Irishman removed from the pet aisle and they all gathered at two booths in the sandwich shop. No one was around and no one was in earshot. In the center of the table was Kenny’s phone (Samsung S9 and he told anyone who asked) and he turned the speaker phone on, cycled through the options and played old messages.

  “Hello, Mr. Rathman, this is Mr. Stander. You met my men earlier tonight. Your friend, Mr. Rhodes, doesn’t seem to want to speak with me and I’m hoping you’re a more reasonable fellow. We’ve created a website for you and I’m wondering if you’d give it a look. Please get a pen ready and write this down.”

  A URL that was a string of letters and numbers followed.

  “Watching this video will give you a much better idea of who we are and, more importantly, where you stand. You can call me back at this number. Good-bye.”

  Silence hung heavy. Not only did they have Kenny’s number and knew who he was, but someone had made a video? That meant resources, expertise, will. Any way you sliced it, this portended doom.

  “If you watch the video, they’ll know where you are,” Conall said, plainly. “They’ll be able to track the data signal at the very least. Don’t be a fool.”

  “You’re right,” Ron said. “But we need to know what it says, don’t we?”

  “Can we watch it while driving?” Dilly suggested. “That might make it harder for them to find us.”

  “That won’t work,” Ron said. “But I think I might be able to rig something up. Come on.”

  Ron led the group through the sad, sad clothes aisles past the toy section and into the aisle where the laptop computers were on display. Some of them were on.

  “If I can get into their wi-fi I might be able to mask our IP address so they don’t see where we’re coming from. At least not right away.”

  The clicks of Ron’s fast fingers filled the aisles and after a minute or so, he started chuckling.

  “Their wi-fi password is ‘password,’ ” he said. “What else do you expect from Walmart?”

  Before long he had worked his magic and turned to the group and heaved a sigh.

  “You guys ready?”

  “I’ve seen these before,” Conall said. “They’ll be some threats, some promises of monetary gain. Typically their first volley isn’t full of blood and guts. Don’t let it rattle you.”

  A few keystrokes later, which echoed in the empty aisle, a plain, white page with a video embedded on the screen. Ron hit play, cranked the volume and pulled up the full screen. It didn’t seem like a video at first but more of a live stream with all the choppy skips and poor resolutions of something happening in the moment. From off camera someone yelled “Sir, they’re on” and the camera shook wildly for a moment. Then it stabilized and focused on Mr. Stander, who was clearly outside.

  “Don’t worry,” Ron said. “I turned off the webcam. They can’t see or hear us.”

  “This is odd,” Mr. Stander started. “I was hoping for more of a real conversation. You’re also blocking your location, but you’re probably in a Walmart somewhere. They’re the only places open at this time of night.”

  His tone was far less formal than Dave had remembered. The man’s bow tie stood out even more in the dead of night.

  “I’ll get right to it. We are very motivated to find you and I’m afraid the possibility of giving you generous compensation for your cooperation has passed. You proved that when you killed several of my men. That’s not something I take lightly nor something my employers are going to forgive. So that’s how it is.”

  The camera then moved from Stander to reveal their location. They were in front of Dave and Josie’s house.

  “I’ll admit, we know less than we’d like at this point,” Stander said. “But we do know a lot. We know about the Rhodes and their family. And where you live. We also know Mr. Rathman and his partner JoAnn are part of your group. There’s a very good chance William Rhodes is also with you. From there, it’s speculation.”

  The camera moved back to Stander.

  “As for your Irish friend, I can be fairly certain he was sent by The Council. And that he knows how outmatched he is right now.”

  Everyone turned and looked at Conall who did not betray what he was thinking.

  “I’m going to be frank with all of you. I’m not usually an emotional man but the way I’ve been treated has been absolutely beyond the pale. This town, this nowhere, I can see why no one’s found you because who would come to such a place? It smells of cattle and desperation and I do not like it. But, I know, for some reason, that you do, so, hopefully, you understand what’s about to happen.”

  The camera cut to a wide shot of the Rhodes household. “Oh God,” Josie said, putting her hands to her mouth.

  The smoke started slowly coming out of the doors but within thirty seconds the accelerants had ignited and the house started to burn. Fire was visible through the windows and through the open door and smoke ran along the roof, rolling over the shingles and flying up through the dark of the night sky.

  Dilly started to cry and Josie joined him. Dave went over and encircled them both with his arms, his eyes never leaving the screen for a second. He saw into the living room where their television was melting and saw the fire had already spread down the hall, eating up their bedroom, Dilly’s bedroom, Josie’s work room with the scrapbooks. Mr. Stander stepped into the frame.

  “We are going to go do the same to Mr. Kirk’s garage here in a couple of hours, then his house. Then we’re going to burn down that shithole bar and the church and the gas station and every other building that means anything to you until you turn yourselves in. I am not exaggerating nor am I bluffing. I am going to burn down your lives to the foundations unless you return. I’m going to give you until sunup and then the fires start. There might be a few deaths sprinkled here and there given that we are going to meet very little resistance from local law enforcement.”

  The fire had moved shockingly fast and Josie was sobbing, taking in giant gulps of air to feed the sound escaping her soul. Dilly was little better, but not by much as he watched the only home he’d ever lived in consumed. Dave’s eyes never left the screen. His eyes were on the kitchen table where he and Josie and Dilly had sat just a few days before and decided to take him out to the woods. The table where Dave and Josie had almost ended their marriage. The table where they would have put their Thanksgiving turkey in a few weeks and have the entire pack over and eat and drink and watch football. The table from which all good things came was burning and would soon be gone.

  “My entire job right now is to bring you pain, Mr. Rhodes,” Mr. Stander continued. “My job requires me to wear many hats. This is one I enjoy putting on. It’s time to come home and meet with me. The sooner you do so, the less pain I will inflict. This is non-negotiable. Good-bye.”

  The feed ended abruptly and Ron closed the page. The hum of the lights and Josie’s echoing sobs were the only noise. At the end of the aisle, something moved.

  “Do you folks need help finding anything?”
a hard-looking woman in a Walmart smock asked.

  “No,” Ron said. “We’re fine. Thanks.”

  “People come here to cry all the time,” the woman said. “Usually they’re alone.”

  “We’re fine,” Ron said again with a touch more force.

  The woman vanished and Willie walked very slowly over to Dave, Josie, and Dilly who were clutching each other. His big arms suddenly closed in over Dave and Dilly, and soon Ron and Carl and JoAnn followed suit until the family was encircled. Conall stayed to the side, visibly uncomfortable.

  “We’ll get him,” Willie whispered, though everyone could hear. “We’ll get that son of a bitch. No one hurts my family like that. No one.”

  “No one but you,” Dilly said through tears, and a few laughs echoed through the sobs and the unrelenting buzz of the lights echoing against stone walls.

  A SELECTIVE HISTORY OF BARTER COUNTY, PART 4

  In the 1970s, Cherry had seen its boom and was starting to see its regression. The age of Main Street had come and gone and while you could still find several small businesses in downtown Cherry—a Ben Franklin, a small grocery store—none of them would survive any later than 1988. Throughout the 1970s, the decay that would lead to the abandonment of downtown was starting to peek through the cracks and make itself known.

  The 1970s were also the first decade where the people of Cherry realized their young people were not going to stay. Generations of farmers saw their children leave for larger cities and population centers, even go to college. It was the sort of shift that left a generation rattled. Beyond that, however, the town was pretty much the same. Quiet, slow, full of people who valued their church, community, and privacy.

  It was these three elements of community life that converged in 1978 to create an incident that was spoken of for years afterward. It involved the First Baptist Church in Cherry, overseen by the Rev. Thomas Rhodes. He decided, one Sunday, to try something he had heard about from his peers but had never been tried before in the town. This new innovation in worship was known as an “Altar Call” and consisted of the pastor or some other church leader offering public absolution and counsel for those with troubled souls.

  Logistically that would mean the pastor saying something to the effect of “if you feel Jesus moving in your heart tonight, asking you to make a change, come to the altar and receive his forgiveness.” The language varied from time to time and even though the nature of what brought them to the altar was kept private, the act of absolution, that you had something to confess or that needed changing in your life, was deliberately a public part of the process.

  When Pastor Rhodes first tried an altar call, things went about as well as could be expected. During that time he was presiding over a fairly large congregation for the area and routinely saw over one hundred parishioners come to Sunday service. Some of those who attended the first altar call were no surprise—the woman who had well-known problems with money, the man who had been seen drinking too much in public, a child whose parents urged him to go. The second altar call drew an unexpected person—the pastor’s own brother, William.

  At that point William was known as a hard-working, solid individual. He wasn’t the pillar of the community that his brother was, but he was known and if not liked, tolerated. Some had seen his temper. None had seen him seek any sort of absolution.

  But this Sunday he was seeking forgiveness, guidance and, if reports are to be believed, a handkerchief. The altar call came and William, tears flowing down his clean-shaven face, stumbled to the front of the church and threw himself prostrate near the altar. One of the aldermen came to help but Willie had descended into sobs.

  Reports of the next few minutes vary, but the story that was told throughout the community involved William’s tearful confession that his wife, Jessica, had left him. Details were confessed, loudly and publicly, as Rev. Thomas tried to console his brother. Finally, several volunteers from the congregation led William away through the side door, but not before he had confessed to ignoring his wife, not caring enough about her and, most embarrassingly, not being able to provide her with more than one child.

  People in small towns have long memories and the whispers of that day followed William throughout his life in Cherry.

  Rev. Thomas, a large man who famously enjoyed butter, pork and cigarettes, died on January 4, 1981. His brother attended the funeral but did not cry. Several in the town wondered afterward what sort of man would blubber about the end of his marriage in front of the entire town, but would suppress his grief when confronted with the death of his brother. Some even more cruelly suggested maybe the wrong brother had died, or that something was wrong with William.

  Of course, others in the town knew something else about Willie, as he started calling himself. That his dealings out in the woods had been met with mutiny and the group had split. Maybe the next generation would be better, some thought, but never said out loud. After all, that would be an invasion of privacy.

  PART SEVEN - ALL THE COMFORTS OF HOME

  Conall made his calls and went shopping while everyone got control of themselves. The huddle hadn’t lasted long and when it broke everyone sort of wandered until they found themselves back in the dank-smelling Subway. By now it was almost 3 a.m.

  Going through the check-out line Conall gave a quick whistle which made everyone look up. He held up a rifle that he had apparently just purchased and was grinning widely at the cashier. The look on his face was one of unbridled joy.

  “Something’s wrong with that guy,” Dilly said.

  “I always wanted to visit Ireland,” Willie said. “That guy’s making me rethink it.”

  “I would go,” JoAnn said. “Looks like we might get the chance.”

  “Cart before horse, darlin’,” Kenny said. “We’ve got a situation to deal with first. Right Dave?”

  “Yeah, we do, but think I need some sleep and a shower first,” Dave replied. Sleep was the last thing on Dave’s mind but he was pretty sure he had miles to go, as it were, and would need any sleep he could get. Things were already a little fuzzy.

  Before long, Conall was back, the rifle slung over his shoulder in a cloth cover.

  “I do not believe this country, brother,” he said to no one in particular. “Everyone and their mums have guns in Ireland but to go buy one in the middle of the night? Wow.”

  The eight pairs of bloodshot eyes staring up at him, unimpressed, gave Conall a pretty good hint to get on with it.

  “Right,” he said. “I’ve arranged safe lodging. What we’re going to do is load back up and drive twenty miles south and there’s a hotel that we can get some sleep. Tomorrow after breakfast or lunch or whatever, we’ll lay out your options.”

  “You mean how I’m gonna go back to town and rip that stupid bow tie off Stander’s neck with my teeth,” Kenny said.

  “We will go through all the options and you’ll make a decision then. We need a bit of shut-eye, don’t you think?”

  No one argued and they piled back into the cars. Half an hour later they were checked in to a bare bones Day’s Inn. Conversation was slim to none.

  •••

  Surprisingly, Dave did get some sleep but his dreams wouldn’t let him be. The same images of bubbling rage filled his head and he woke with a start after only a few hours. The sun was just coming up and Josie was out cold, next to him. Dilly was in the room’s second twin bed, snoring.

  Using skills he had acquired through years of staying in a hotel with his family, Dave dressed as quietly as he could and made his way out the front door, careful to lessen any loud sounds the door would make by moving slowly. He walked around to the back of the hotel where light was just starting to creep into the jet black sky, enough to give him a sense of where they were. The hotel was off the highway and, like so many others in the area, catered largely to truckers and those traveling east to west across the state. You could make it in about four hours, all told, but he’d heard that hotels did well in locations such as
this. The miles and miles of corn and ranches tended to do in even the most stout of travelers.

  Behind the hotel was a field, vast and undeveloped. Even with the little bit of light available to him, Dave could see the acres of grassland before him, even catching glimpses of the sharp October wind blowing through, creating waves, just like back home. Just like the home he’d likely never go back to.

  “Figured you’d be up, brother.”

  Dave turned to see Conall sitting on a makeshift picnic area. There were two rusted iron chairs next to a tiny table, only big enough to set maybe two glasses. In the dim light, Dave could see the glow of something Conall was smoking and laying over the chair, his left leg up high over the armrest. How European, Dave thought.

  “Come, sit, please,” he said. “I need to address the alpha.”

  “Jesus,” Dave said. “You make it sound so formal.”

  Plopping down in the chair, Dave was hit with the thick smoke of a cigar. The smell stuck to the inside of his nose and his body thought about coughing but retreated out of courtesy, catching it in his throat and swallowing it.

  “You want one?” Conall said. “You Americans make the worst beer in the entire world but you’re aces at cigars.”

  From his thin fingers, Conall held out a long, somewhat thin, cigar. Dave thought about defending American beer, especially some of the fine microbreweries that had popped up in the past few years, but he let it sit.

  “I’m not sure how you do that,” Dave said. “I smell triple what everyone else does. If I smoked one of those it would be stuck in my nose for days.”

  “That’s sort of the point, isn’t it?” Conall said. “Mark my words, you’re going to want it. If not now, maybe in a couple of minutes.”