A toxic teabag that was just starting to ferment. Something that would only get worse if Father Carter became mayor.
But then there it was again… the defeatest mantra that ping-ponged around his brain like a wayward electron.
What choice do I have?
“I also saw two bikes, engines off, coast by about a half hour ago,” Coggins said quietly, drawing the Sheriff out of his head.
“Seriously? Why didn’t you mention it?”
Coggins grimaced.
“They weren’t here for trouble. Just checking out the scene. Besides, you were… occupied.”
Paul looked up at the funeral home operator. He was waiting for some sort of signal to shut this thing down.
The pervasive feeling of dread was not unique to the Sheriff’s department, it seemed; everyone in town felt it.
Paul had had intentions of saying something at Nancy’s funeral, and he had even prepared a few words. But now, with the bikers cruising, the cartels lurking in the shadows, his voice suddenly felt parched and he knew that anything he said would come across as empty, as preoccupied as he was.
No, there was only one way that he could put Nancy to rest properly: to kill the bastard Walter Wandry and his group of sadistic bandits.
What was it that Father Carter had a fondness of saying?
Make Askergan great again.
Yeah, fuck, that’ll do. Maybe not great, just good. Get the good guys back on top for once. And if you had to strike a deal with a minor demon to oust Satan?
So be it—Dana would have done the same… maybe.
Paul nodded, and the man returned the gesture, before signaling to two other men to lower the casket. Nancy was barely in the earth when Sheriff White turned to his deputies, making sure that his back was to the final few grieving townsfolk that were readying themselves to leave.
Paul blinked long and slow, deliberate, and then looked at Reggie, Coggins, and Williams in succession.
“Let’s go. We have work to do.”
Reggie raised an eyebrow.
“Tonight,” the Sheriff continued, answering the question that was on all of their minds. “We are going to break in tonight.”
Chapter 14
Dirk Kinkaid couldn’t believe the situation he currently found himself in. His drive to find and exact his revenge on the man with the initials CD, the one who now absurdly called himself Father Carter Duke of all things, had gotten himself entrenched in a strange mix of politics and horror.
And now he found himself actually helping the man. Helping him. After what he had done to his hand, to his wife, to his son… it was irony on the thickest level, one that made him question his very sanity.
Every morning since being deputized he awoke drenched in sweat, his hands clenched into fists so tightly that it felt as if all of his fingers had been removed, and not just the first three on his right hand.
Twice he had woken with his hands on the gun that Sheriff White had given him. In his sleep, he had somehow managed to pull it from its holster that was slung over the chair by his bed.
He didn’t remember doing this, but deep down he knew why. And he detested himself for that, too. Only a coward committed suicide, and a coward he was not.
A coward wouldn’t spend the best part of six years scouring the earth for his wife and son’s murderer, would he?
The worst part is that “Father Carter Duke” didn’t even seem to recognize him.
If he did, and let Dirk get this close, then he was a bigger idiot than he had first thought.
No, not an idiot. A fucking charming savant who seems to have everyone—the Sheriff, the entire County—wrapped around his blood-stained fingers.
But he would get his revenge, of that he was certain; everything was eventual in this world, he knew.
Everything, including revenge.
Twice he had gotten close to Carter without his fucking monosyllabic henchman Pike, the ex-boxer turned bodyguard, being present and both times he had been within seconds of settling the score. But Carter Duke, or Chris Davis, or whoever he was in any given moment, had an uncanny ability to be around the wrong people at the right time, as it were. And both times the Sheriff had been present. Part of him wanted to just go ahead and do it anyway, put a bullet in the man’s grinning face, then turn the gun on himself. After all, he owed the Sheriff nothing.
But the Sheriff, for all of his shortcomings, looked like a man quick to draw, and he couldn’t risk him getting the jump. And he also wouldn’t risk the Sheriff being caught in the cross-fire, either. As deep as his need for revenge ran, he refused to take another man’s life in the process.
That part of him, perhaps the only part since that fateful night at Tony’s Gym, was still intact.
And maybe that was the only shred of the old Tristan Owens that was left. The rest had become Dirk Kinkaid.
So he played along with the Sheriff and his band of misfit deputies, knowing that if they succeeded in ridding the world of the psychopath that was Walter Wandry as a byproduct of his own revenge, then that might make him happy, too. So long as it didn’t interfere with his revenge on Carter, that is.
Which is why he had found himself reluctantly answering what seemed like the Sheriff’s millionth telephone call, and now found himself here, in the basement of the Askergan Police Station, surrounded by men with long faces and deep frowns.
“Walter was in Sabra’s office—” Dirk said, pointing to the large room in the center of the diagram, —”when I left. That’s where Sabra keeps his personal stash of dope, so I bet that’s where he spends most of his time. And it was where the chain that was—” The Sheriff’s eyes narrowed when he said this, and an image of the plastic bag with Nancy’s head inside flashed in his mind. This man had also lost someone he loved at the hands of sadistic murder.
Best not go into too much detail of how Sabra had used the chandelier chain to tear off Walter’s ballsack.
“—that’s where they kept Walter, too. I bet the women are there.”
Coggins, who had been busy looking through the locker for ammunition and artillery when Dirk had arrived, piped in.
“How sure are you?”
Dirk turned to face the gaunt man with the red beard. Unlike the Sheriff, he had gotten a strange vibe from Coggins ever since he had arrived. From just a few, short interactions, Dirk had begun to suspect that this man was also suffering from demons, and that he had motives that went above and beyond rescuing his girlfriend.
“Can’t be sure. I left before he kidnapped any of the other girls.”
“Any way you can find out?” the Sheriff interjected.
The question caught Dirk by surprise.
“Huh, dunno. They’ve all seen me here; they know that I’ve sided with you guys now.”
Reggie, who was busy cleaning what looked like an antique handgun, asked, “anyone you can trust in there? A friend, maybe?”
Dirk mulled this over.
Friends? No, definitely no friends.
He frowned.
“No, but there is one man,” Mickey’s face flashed in his mind. “Maybe… maybe, but that’s only if he’s still there. A lot of the bikers left when things got hairy—like I did. Some, but not all; after Walter or the Crab or whatever he calls himself gained control, they had no choice but to stay.”
“Can you contact this man?”
Dirk shook his head.
“No—I don’t have my cell phone anymore. Smashed it when I ran.”
“What about meeting in person?”
“My man Mickey was working the gate when I left. If he is there, I suppose I could try. I mean, it’s equally likely that he or any of the others just fucking blast me. I was with the Skull Krushers for two years; they aren’t the most forgiving of clans, as you well know.”
Coggins, the Sheriff, and Reggie exchanged looks, and Dirk observed them closely.
The plan was suicide, even if—and it was a big if, a fucking meteor-sized if—they were able t
o get inside via the sewers. Deputy Reggie looked like a bodybuilder who had never fired a gun, Coggins looked like an AIDS victim struggling through his final days after the retrovirals started to fail, and the Sheriff was a giant teddy bear of a man. And Williams; shit, Williams who had left to figure out where they could get more weapons from, was like a kid playing cops and robbers.
His mind turned to the Skull Krushers next, their tattooed bodies, their ruthlessness. Sure, some were kids themselves, having joined just to try and fit in somewhere, to have a feeling of belonging, but the others…
They hadn’t always called themselves the Skull Krushers—a ridiculous and as uncreative a name as there was. In his research between the time he had left the gym and eventually finding his way back and joining them, Dirk had discovered that they were initially called the Steel Knights. But the biker gang had gained a brutal reputation of curb stomping, and people in the streets had started referring to them as the Krushers.
And the name stuck.
No, these bikers definitely weren’t the forgiving type.
Part of Dirk wanted to tell these small town cops to back off, to wait for the cavalry to arrive, despite the Crab’s threats of sending plastic-wrapped body parts every week. Askergan was fucked as it was, and without Sheriff and his deputies to watch over it, it was doomed to fall into Hell. But he also knew that if the FBI really came in, then they might do some digging about him.
About him and about Father Carter, and he couldn’t risk this part of his plan being foiled. He had chased the man for six years all across the country, and if CD was spooked… he didn’t know if he could stomach doing that again.
Next time I wake up, the gun won’t be in my hand, but in my mouth.
“I can try,” he said with a shrug, and he saw the Sheriff’s large shoulders relax just a little. “But you have to promise me something.”
“What’s that?” the Sheriff asked, his eyes narrowing.
It was clear that he was weary of making deals of any kind, but Dirk also knew that he held the upper hand here.
For once, he held the power.
Dirk sighed and hooked a chin over to the small pile of mostly handguns that Coggins had laid atop the diagram of Sabra’s estate.
“That we get more guns than that—a hell of a lot more guns.”
Chapter 15
Sheriff Paul White looked at his newest deputy across the table, then down at the guns on the table. He was struck by a sense of deja vu, of a time when he and Coggins and other men, men like these ones, were preparing to defend the station, of getting to the source, the hive, of the infestation.
Of the crackers.
Only back then, they had had even more guns than they did now, and even back then they had a paltry supply. Back then, Nancy had still been alive.
“Fuck,” he said quietly, “you’re right.”
He looked at Coggins first, and was surprised to find that his friend was staring back at him. There was such deep sadness in his eyes that Paul felt his gut wrench.
“I thought this was over,” Coggins muttered, and Paul couldn’t help but nod.
“It will be, Coggins. Soon, it will be.”
A thought suddenly occurred to him.
“Hey Williams, you’re friends with Leon? Leon Maselo?”
Williams turned and squinted for a moment, a look of confusion on his face.
“Leon… you mean the guy out at Maselo Tackle?”
“That’s the one.”
“Wouldn’t say friends, but I definitely know him. Went ice fishing a couple of years ago. That was before I knew that he was growing pot, though. Remember we brought him in about six months ago?”
Truth was, Sheriff White didn’t remember. They had booked so many people on drug offenses since the storm that their faces and names had become a blur to him.
Dana Drew would never forget an arrest.
Paul shook his head.
“No, not really. But that’s even better. Think you can call in a favor?”
Williams shrugged.
“I can try. What for?”
“Well, the store might be called Maselo Tackle, but it should really be called Maselo Tackle and Ammo, my friend.”
Coggins nodded, as did Dirk and Reggie.
“We aren’t going to get any of the cartels assault rifles, but we can definitely score some more pistols. Maybe a shotgun or two.”
“Speaking of cartels,” Dirk interrupted, “where is Pike? And Father Carter? How do they fit into all this.”
“They don’t,” Paul said quickly, eying the other man.
Why do I get the feeling that those two are why you are really interested in Askergan?
“They aren’t going to play any role in this. Pike somehow managed to convince the cartels to lend a hand, likely because they think that eliminating the Crab will let them put their own man in place and continue to use Askergan to funnel drugs north into Canada or wherever else they’re going, but that’s it. I won’t have the priest, his henchman, or any of his followers get involved.”
Dirk almost looked disappointed.
“Look, I know we’re undermanned—undermanned and underpowered—but let me tell you how this is going to go down, alright? It’s our best, and only option. Unless, of course, anyone else has other ideas?”
Sheriff White waited for a reply, and when none came, he nodded and continued.
“First, we go see if we can’t get some vests and more guns from Maselo’s, then we wait for the sun to go down. As soon as it starts to dip below the horizon, Dirk, you’re up. See if you can somehow reach your buddy inside the estate, confirm the location of the prisoners. In the meantime, we get into the sewers in Askergan, and make our way to the Pekinish under the road.”
He turned to Williams.
“How did you get in the tunnels to flush out the rats?”
Reggie muttered something about hating rats again, but Paul ignored him.
“Way back then, we were more suited for getting rid of ants and mice, not so much rats—and when we did, they were in walls, not sewers. We had to outsource to get into the sewers… Johnny Mech helped us get in.”
Coggins raised an eyebrow.
“Johnny the Mechanic?”
“Yep, that’s him.”
Sheriff felt a weight lift off his chest. For once, things seemed to be going their way.
“Yeah, we know him well. Coggins, get Johnny the Mechanic to help us get into the sewers and help us figure out a way to get out and into the house. Tell him to bring some flashlights, too. Once we are in position, we’ll let Pike know, and he’ll signal the cartels to start their distraction. Dirk, you join them and try to draw out as many of the bikers as you can. That’s when we go in—and we go in quick and clean, grab the girls, then hightail it out of there.”
Paul took a deep breath. On the surface, the plan as he had just described it sounded okay, but if you thought about it long enough… well, it was just too simple, too superficial. There were too many moving parts, too many things that could—and probably would—go wrong.
Johnny the Mechanic notwithstanding.
He just hoped that the other men didn’t see it for what it was: a desperate plan designed by a desperate man from a desperate town.
Paul waited for a response, a reply, anything, but when the silence went on for so long that he started to grow fidgety, he spoke up.
“C’mon guys, say something. What—”
“You forgot about one thing,” Dirk offered at last.
“What’s that?”
“The Crab,” he replied simply.
More silence.
If the other men were anything like the Sheriff, they were undoubtedly recalling the way the crackers’ joints snapped and popped, the way they grabbed onto your skin and burrowed beneath it with their awful, oscillating teeth.
“We’ll deal with—”
A loud bang from upstairs stopped him mid sentence.
“What the fuck was that
?” Dirk asked, but Coggins had already scooped up his handgun, and was bolting upstairs. Sheriff White ran after him, his breath coming in bursts, adrenaline coursing through his veins.
Chapter 16
Jared Lawrence’s entire body seized. It was as if rigor mortis had gripped every muscle.
Only he was still alive, or so he thought. He just couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His heart suddenly pumped, flooding his system with blood, confirming that he was very much alive.
And then his bladder let go, soaking the front of his jeans.
It can’t be.
After what he had seen on the hill—Pike calmly, unabashedly putting two holes in the Mexican gangbanger—he had felt his moral fiber unraveling. And yet, despite what he had seen and heard, he was no closer to getting Corina back.
When Pike had gone into the back room to take yet another phone call, he had snuck out of the church, intent on meeting up with Sheriff White and Deputy Coggins. He had made it as far as the Main Street turnoff, as far as the glowing white sign that read “Askergan Police Station”, the smashed plastic covering stitched together with duct tape, before he had been spooked by the sound of motorcycles approaching, and had slid behind a tree.
There were two of them, the throttle of their matching choppers echoing in the late afternoon sky, and a third man on the back of one of the bikes. The drivers wore matching vests, and both had greasy ponytails that ran halfway down their backs, obscuring the second ‘l’ in what Jared knew to read ‘Skull Krushers’.
What a stupid fucking name, he thought absently as the other man, the one riding bitch, the one who looked like an accountant maybe, or a district attorney who just came to terms with the disillusionment of his cause, slid awkwardly off the back.
As Jared watched, the man limped toward the front of the station, his back to him, and then tossed a large plastic bag against the door of the Askergan County Police station. The glass, which had just recently been replaced since the cracker attack, bowed inward, but didn’t break.
But this wasn’t what had caused Jared’s central nervous system to convulse, even knowing what might be, or probably was in the bag—a head, it was a fucking human head.
Stitches (Insatiable Series Book 5) Page 7
