A Million to One: (The Millionth Trilogy Book 2)

by Tony Faggioli

  “Why can’t you tell for sure?”

  The same reason you’re growing wearier. My power is waning.

  “What happens when it runs out?”

  You don’t want to know, The Gray Man replied flatly.

  “Great.”

  I have a pooled reserve, but I sense we might need it later.

  “Ha. I don’t need to be an angel to know that’s likely.”

  The air in the city was barely there. No wind. No breeze. Nor were there any sounds to be carried on them if there were.

  Please. Keep moving. The longer we’re here the greater danger we’re in.

  Napoleon moved from the center of the street to the right curb, deliberately keeping a low wall off to their left in his line of sight.

  Silence again. In the face of it, and to ease his panic, Napoleon advanced up the street again, this time at a slightly quicker pace.

  After a few blocks he asked, “You see anything?”

  The Gray Man had no chance to reply. At the next corner, as if they were ghosts who had risen from the ground, was a line of people, filthy and ragged. Their backs turned to them.

  Don’t let them see you, The Gray Man whispered firmly.

  But it was too late. Near the end of the line was a man sucking desperately on an empty crack pipe. Napoleon had seen his kind thousands of times: the face worn, a mouthful of cavities, greasy hair—a crackhead. So he wasn’t surprised when the man looked over at him with vacant eyes.

  But he was surprised at what happened next: the man dropped the pipe and screamed, nearly falling backwards against a light post, his feet shuffling so rapidly in place that the sound of his shoes scraping against the sidewalk was like sandpaper on wood.

  The Gray Man sighed, an all-encompassing sound in Napoleon’s mind. I knew it, he said.

  “Knew what?” Napoleon asked.

  The rest of the people in line turned to see what the commotion was all about, and like characters from a silent movie, they all noticed Napoleon too, and then, the pain began.

  Napoleon felt the separation occur instantly. The same bonding that had fused his soul with The Gray Man in front of Victoria Brasco’s house, seemingly a century ago, was now happening in reverse. The pain was swift but brief, and once it was over Napoleon felt completely vulnerable.

  The panic of the crowd was offset by some sort of trumpet call from one of the rooftops. Napoleon looked up, and there, descending swiftly, were three creatures, black with large wings. Their eyes, burning red as they grew closer, along with the horns that poked from their skulls identified them: demons. Napoleon was speechless at the sight of them. They were living proof that every painter on earth who’d taken to capturing their images had surely suffered their visits, for the accuracy was uncanny.

  As if now under the control of the demons, the crowd went from zombie-like to mob-like. All hell broke loose as they charged across the street at Napoleon, who began to backpedal before he bumped into someone.

  It was The Gray Man. His visage, even here, even now, was awe-inspiring.

  Move aside, he said, stepping forwards to spray the crowd with a white arc that catapulted half of them down the street, tumbling like blown trash down the sidewalk and across the walls of some of the buildings.

  Immediately, the airborne demons above pulled up.

  Yes. Different, isn’t it, my friends? When you know he’s not alone, The Gray Man said firmly. But there was sadness in his voice. Napoleon heard it right away.

  The remainder of the crowd was regrouping as the demons held their place in the sky.

  “What’s happening?” Napoleon managed to ask. In the chaos, he’d instinctively drawn his gun again. Then he cursed his stupidity and fumbled inside his jacket until he found one of the two spare clips attached to the inside belt of his holster. Dumb. He should have reloaded the minute he killed that last dog. What was he thinking? He swapped clips and re-chambered his weapon in one fluid movement as The Gray Man spoke.

  They are no doubt communicating with higher authorities and announcing our presence. Our mission is over, Villa.

  Napoleon was stunned. “What?”

  This was never part of the plan. At no point was your soul to be the price for Kyle’s rescue.

  “We can’t just leave!”

  Villa, we were to only use you for cover, as a disguise, to get here, to look for Kyle. That was bad enough. But if you die here, it will be a huge violation of the spiritual order of things.

  “No. There’s got to be—”

  As he studied the demons and their surroundings, The Gray Man seemed crestfallen. Poor Kyle. Hopefully she has found him. That’s his only chance now.

  “Her? Who are you talking about?”

  Without warning, the demons quickly circled and then plummeted towards them.

  The time has come. The ruler of this place knows we’re here now. He turned quickly to look at Napoleon, his eyes almost pleading for cooperation. Listen to me carefully, Villa. We must advance, as quickly as possible, out of this city. From this point it looks like straight ahead is our only chance. The force field is there, about ten blocks away. When we get there, do not hesitate. Run straight through.

  “Wait. We’re running?”

  Yes, The Gray Man said. Running or dying.

  CONCH HAD JUST MET Mr. Barry Pender, General Manager of Lolo’s Breads, and already he didn’t like him.

  It wasn’t that he made him for a suspect or anything, at least not yet. It was that he made him for a lifelong bully, which meant he was guilty of more crimes than anyone would ever know, or that he’d ever be prosecuted for. You could see it in the way Pender carried himself, the way he snapped at his receptionist, who practically cowered before him, for making Conch wait in the lobby. And you could also see it in his eyes: they were flat and dull. How many kids on the playground had tried to avoid the gaze of those eyes?

  “So? What can I do you for, Sheriff?” he said, his voice gruff and garbled. He was seated at a large oak desk scattered with papers and too many Bic pens. A coffee cup with a picture of Sofía Vergara sat near a phone and stapler. Conch had taken the chair offered to him when they’d arrived, which was opposite the desk and had one wobbly leg.

  “Well. We’re looking into some things that I’m not completely at liberty to discuss right now, and I have a few questions about one of your employees.”

  Pender’s eyebrows rose and held their position, while his lips formed a curious “Oh?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the employee’s name?”

  “Troy Forester.”

  The flat eyes flashed with recognition. “Troy? No shit? Fuck me.”

  “He still works here, correct?”

  Pender burped into his fist, his rather large gut bouncing with the effort. Sitting up in his desk chair he scratched the back of his head and asked, “So… what’s Dipshit Troy done?”

  Conch was not surprised that Pender would refer to someone in a derogatory fashion, much less an employee, much less an employee who might be in trouble with the law. Still, he had to follow up. “Hmm. Why do you call him that?”

  “What? Dipshit? Oh. Well, let’s just say he’s a few fries short of a Happy Meal, ya know what I mean?”

  “Really?”

  “I dunno, drivers come in and outta here each year. The pay’s okay, but most are racking up hours for their Class A License and moving on to bigger and better things. But not Troy.”

  “How long’s he been here?” Conch asked.

  “Eleven years,” Pender said with a chuckle. His face was pimply, like a teenage kid’s, even though Conch guessed him to be in his late forties.

  “Have you been his manager all that time?”

  “God, no!” Pender said with a shake of his head. “I woulda hung myself by now.”

  “Why’s that? Is he a problem employee or something?”

  “No. Not really. He just does odd shit all the time.”

  Conch felt his radar turn on. “
Odd?”

  “Yeah. He can’t remember from one week to the next some of his route details, or how to load the truck. Fridays are the worst.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Sales day.”

  Before Conch could ask, Pender explained, “One day a week each driver is required to canvass his area for new clients. Not the optimal way to land business, mind you—they’re drivers, not salesmen—but you know how its’ been since the recession. Shit. I’m doing my job and the old quality control person’s job too, ya know?”

  “So what’s the issue with Fridays?”

  “Besides the fact that Troy’s an oddball?”

  “How, exactly, is he an ‘oddball’ again?”

  “Ya know.” Pender waved his hand dismissively in the air. “He’s a fucking shy, geeky-type guy.”

  Ah, Conch thought, shy and geeky. What a crime.

  “And the particular problem on Fridays again?”

  Perhaps it was the curt way in which Conch asked the question or something else entirely, but Pender did something annoying: he got uppity. Conch could see it in the way he squinted his eyes. “Ah, ya know, Sheriff, what’s this all about again? I think I should know before I start giving information out on an employee and all.”

  Conch was still tired from his lack of sleep, and more than a little anxious to get things moving. The last thing he had time for was an aging bully who didn’t like the way he was being talked to. “Mr. Pender, look, it’s a police matter. I’ve informed you that I’m conducting an investigation and, really, it’s in your best interest to be as cooperative as you can be.”

  Pender blinked, but didn’t bend. Bullies never did. “My interest?”

  “Yes. I assume the owner will not like it when we shut this place down for the day to do interviews with everyone who works here because we had no other choice, since you weren’t forthcoming enough to prevent that from happening.”

  Conch waited while Pender shifted uncomfortably in his chair and tried to find a way to comply while still saving face. After a second or two, Pender evidently decided to go with the “we’re all friends here” approach. “Sheriff, please, c’mon now, I meant no offense. I just don’t know what our exposure is—”

  “None. This is a police matter,” Conch answered, keeping the rest of what he wanted to say trapped in his head. So your ass is safe and sound, Mr. Pender, because we both know that’s all you’re worried about.

  For a moment no one said anything, then Pender finally spoke up, “Okay. Where were we? Fridays! Yeah. Okay. Well. Shyness and sales don’t mix, but it’s required. Troy does the best he can, but if he were on full commission he’d be homeless by now.”

  Conch nodded.

  “But, worse than all that? He’s constantly getting lost.”

  “Lost?”

  “Yeah. His route, he’s got that mostly memorized. All his stops, the drop times and store hours. After ten years even a rat can remember how to get through a maze, ya know what I’m saying?”

  Conch bit his lip and only nodded for Pender to go on.

  “But sales, ya gotta crisscross your area and do the best you can to chase up leads. It’s kinda helter-skelter, ya know? Ya gotta hustle, man. And I tell him that all the time.”

  “And?”

  “Well. All I gotta say is thank God the guys use our fleet cars and not their trucks on sales days, ’cause the boss would be broke from the wasted gas mileage. I mean Troy… I dunno… when he was young he fell outta the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down.”

  “Yeah?”

  Pender laughed. “Even got him written up once.”

  “What for?”

  “Well, ya know, all the fleet vehicles have GPS, of course. So, one day, we can’t find Troy. We had a meet and greet setup at a new diner opening up in Bakersfield. No one else could get to it but Troy that day. Sure enough, he’s late. We’re trying to call him, nothing. Phone goes straight to voice mail. The diner owner don’t wanna wait around to give us his business, ya know—I mean, imagine that, right? I started getting pissed. So I pull up the GPS map on the computer and search for his vehicle, up pops his location and guess what?”

  For some reason, Conch felt himself grow uneasy. “What?”

  “Dipshit’s lost again. This time worse than ever! The dumb fuckers in the boondocks, off the 14, for crying out loud, parked for over an hour trying to figure out how to get un-lost. I mean, how is that possible?”

  “Hmm. So what happened?”

  “Oh, we lost the lead, and by the time he calls in he’s all apologetic. When we tell him we GPSed him he gets all fidgety, says he was embarrassed to admit how lost he was, he got turned around and confused, and that there was no cell reception up there, which I can believe because he was all the way up in the damn canyons.”

  “Do you think him getting that lost was drugs or alcohol related?”

  Pender chuckled. “Troy? Possible, I guess. But I doubt it.”

  “So no trouble with him of that nature?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay. So, you said you wrote him up?”

  “Oh, yeah. Boss was livid. Troy was lucky he didn’t get fired. But he’s a quiet guy, mostly keeps to himself, doesn’t miss work often and rarely even takes his vacation.”

  “No other problems with him?”

  Pender shook his head. “Wanted to argue the write up.”

  Conch was mildly surprised. “Really?”

  “Yeah. We had the whole thing documented, screenshot of the computer showing him fifteen miles off course, shit like that. Just like HR wanted it. Don’t ya know? Dipshit refused to sign the warning.”

  Now he had Conch’s full attention. “Can I see it? The write up, I mean?”

  Pender shrugged and reached for the phone. “I don’t see why not. Let me ask Gina—”

  “Uh, Mr. Pender, if it’s not too much trouble, can you grab it yourself? Ya know, in the interest of keeping things quiet for now.”

  “Hmm? Sure. Okay. Man, me thinks that Troy has really messed up,” Pender said, before he stood and left the office. A few minutes later he came back with a tan file and handed it to Conch.

  Inside were the usual employee file contents: completed application, ID copies, W4 and I9. Conch was willing to bet that Pender had checked all this before handing it over to him, in the interest of being a good citizen and all. But it didn’t matter. Conch was after only one thing: the write up and what was stapled to it, the colored map printout of the computer screenshot that Pender had mentioned. The website was for a company called NavTrak. It showed a single white dot on a solitary road a good ten miles up above Highway 14. Listed in the lower right corner was a sequence of numbers: 194.32.44. The exact GPS coordinates of the vehicle that day.

  “Can I get a copy of the file?” Conch asked.

  “Sure.”

  Again Pender left, again he came back. But he looked worried now. His blue polo shirt was at least a double-x and his pants were too tight in the legs. Conch realized he was an awkwardly built man who had probably played offensive line in high school and crushed beer cans on his head in college. “So. Is it okay to ask if this is something we should be worried about?”

  “I doubt it. Just doing some legwork, Mr. Pender. Would it be possible to see Troy today?”

  “Normally, yeah but…”

  “But?”

  “He called out sick today.”

  Once again, Conch’s radar sounded. “Really? You said that was pretty rare, didn’t you?”

  “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Well, except for this month.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Man. He’s missed three days in the last two weeks.”

  Conch could almost hear the gears of his investigation click into place. Three days. Two missing girls. It was probably nothing. But maybe it wasn’t. After he said goodbye to Pender and poor Gina at the front desk, he made his way across the parking lot.

  Conch looked down at his copy of Troy Forester’s em
ployee file and noted his home address.

  He couldn’t be in two places at once, and since Troy’s address was nearby, he decided to call Kendall so he and Parker could go check out the GPS spot up in the canyons, which was closer to where they were at anyway.

  It was the only lead they had to go with for now. So go with it they would.

  CHAPTER 27

  TAMARA WAS HALFWAY HOME when she reversed course, mentally as well as physically, and decided to drive to church in the hopes of finding Pastor Williams’ car in the parking lot. It was.

  This was crazy. If she said too much, she was breaking protocol and her promise to Detective Parker.

  But, in truth, she was also just simply breaking, mentally, and she could feel it.

  She needed God now, and she’d been praying the whole drive across town after leaving the supermarket parking lot, making turns on streets that made no sense, doubling back, now too afraid to go home, but then again, afraid to pull over to stop anywhere else.

  How many of them were there, all around her, normal people who were really just evil things waiting to be called upon to torment her, or worse, her children?

  It was while in the midst of her prayers that something told her to go to church, even though she’d been telling herself all this time not to. Since God Himself was not likely to show up on the scene, a man of God was the next best thing.

  She wished pastors were more like priests: required to maintain confidentiality when called upon for counsel. But with what she had to say, she wondered if anyone could keep quiet about it.

  You don’t have to tell him everything.

  That was true. She didn’t.

  She parked her car and walked the kids into the small office off the parking lot. Amanda, the church receptionist, was at her desk. “Oh, hey, Tamara. H-how are you?” she said, a look of mild surprise on her face.

  “Okay, I guess,” Tamara replied. “Is Pastor Williams in?”

  “Yes. He is. He’s just getting off the phone now. Would you like to speak with him?” The question was mixed with just a spoonful of pity that was stirred in her eyes.

  Tamara nodded. Janie held one of her hands, Seth the other. It was now or never. “Yes. Please. I really need to talk to him.”