Hunting Witches
Page 19
“Were you looking for anything like that?” Tamara asked.
“Are you kidding? I live in Elders Keep. I’m always looking for anything like that.”
***
Two hours later, and the story was up on local news websites. It was vague, and made Graham’s disdain for the press made him look like a curmudgeon, but he didn’t care about that.
Watching on his laptop in Atlanta, Stone Baskin didn’t care about Sheriff Strahan’s demeanor, either. He wanted facts, needed information. He knew there would be another report later on in the evening, but he wanted to know everything now. Stone Baskin was a man who required the truth. There was no room in his life for bullshit.
It had only taken him two minutes after disconnecting his call with the Sheriff that he made his decision. He picked up the phone again and dialed Randy.
“Stone, my brother! What’s up?” Randy said. Stone could hear the wind rushing through the phone. Randy was in the car.
“Pull over, Randy. I hate it when you talk while driving.” Stone’s voice was stern. The next thing he heard was the sound of tires on gravel as Randy pulled off onto the soft shoulder.
“All right, all right,” Randy said. “I’m parked. What’s going on?”
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard,” Stone said.
“Heard what, man? All I can hear is the road and Angelica, mumbling in the back seat.”
“Nika’s dead,” Stone said. “Mark, too.”
“What? Dude, you’ve pulled some sick jokes before, but this isn’t funny.”
“I’m not laughing. My sister is dead. Our high priestess is dead.”
“Oh, man,” Randy whispered. “What happened?”
“Some fucking hilljack in that damned town Mark dragged her to killed both of them. They’re both gone, Randy. Gone.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Well, we’re not going to wait on the local sheriff to catch the bad guys. I don’t think he’s smart enough to do that. But I have to go there to make arrangements. I want you and Angelica to meet me there.”
“What’s the name of the town again? I’ll GPS it,” Randy said.
“Elders Keep,” Stone said. “Little podunk town in Tennessee.”
“Oh, man,” Randy said. “You’re not going to believe this. We’ve already been there.”
“What?” Stone was amazed.
“Well, Angel and I were out doing our summer tour and she said there was a tent revival she wanted to, you know. Attend.”
“Get back there,” Stone said. “There’s only one hotel in the whole damned town. It’s called the Highlander Inn. We’ll meet there.”
“You got it,” Randy said. Stone disconnected and Randy reached into the back seat to wake up his daughter.
“Angelica, get up,” he said. “Bad things are afoot.”
“Why? What’s going on?” Angelica was eight years old. Her hair was blonde and curly. The white dress she wore made her look like a porcelain doll.
“Honey, Nika’s dead.”
Angelica screamed, a deep guttural moan that shook the fabric on the roof of the car. Before he could stop her, she was out of the back seat and spinning around on the soft shoulder.
“Honey, don’t hit the car!” Randy yelled.
Angelica’s palms were turned towards the sky. She wailed, and it sounded like many voices coming out of her pretty mouth instead of just hers. Low growls, screams of pain, the agony of many expressed at once. Randy watched helplessly as the little girl’s palms turned red like an electric cooktop, glowing until at last fire danced about in her hands. Angelica threw the small globes of flame into the woods behind the car, setting a small pile of twigs ablaze. “No, no, no!” she yelled, and then the tears came, unbidden.
“Now, listen,” Randy said. “I’ve already talked to Stone. He’s got a plan.”
“It better be a fucking good plan,” Angelica snarled. “By all hell, I will avenge her!”
“Ease down, Angel,” Randy pleaded. “Don’t worry. Save your anger. Save your hate.”
“So what are we doing, Randy?” The little girl who could throw fire was panting under the combination of the sudden stress and anger.
Randy knelt in front of her and smiled. “Sweetheart, we’re going to war.”
Angelica smiled, wiped away her tears and smoothed out her pretty white dress. There. She was a little girl again. She got back in the car, rolled down the window, glared at Randy and said, “Drive.”
Randy sat down, slammed the door shut beside him and started the car, as he had been instructed.
***
“This is some of the grisliest shit I’ve ever seen, Deputy Moon,” Graham said. “Some horrific, premeditated, brutal shit.”
“Yes, sir,” Kevin said. “I’m still having a hard time looking at it.”
“I’m having a hard time figuring out the real motivation,” Graham said. “I think all the Jesus stuff is a smokescreen. The whole thing feels evil, not like the result of a sloppy misguided belief. This was too well planned. Whoever did this enjoyed the hell out of it. And that person or persons is watching TV and drinking tea and I’m sitting here watching the coroner’s office scoop Nika Pendleton out of her own backyard with a bulldozer.”
“You should take a break,” Kevin said.
Graham buried his face in hands. “I’m talking to you like a man right now, Kevin. Not your boss.”
“I appreciate that, Graham,” Kevin said, trying to muffle how pleased he was to be the sheriff’s confidant.
“I have these nightmares sometimes, Deputy,” Graham said, his voice muffled, “and I don’t know where they come from, but they hit me at least twice a week. Started about three months ago. All I can ever remember is walls of fire, and a sound like jungle drums, and a voice saying, ‘Three are coming.’ Don’t know what it means. Can’t figure it out.”
Kevin shrugged. “They’re just dreams, Sheriff. I’m sure they’re stress induced. Those nightmares are just your mind cleaning itself out. Like a douche.”
Graham glanced askance at Kevin. “A douche? I have a douche in my head?”
“Sorry, Sheriff,” Kevin said. “It was the best I could come up with.”
“A douche,” Graham repeated. “Awesome.”
Graham stared at the Pendleton’s backyard, as their bodies were removed from the convoluted constructions that had destroyed them. He didn’t notice that he was scratching the palm of his left hand. If there hadn’t been a glove on it, he would have drawn blood.
For Claudia
Patience.
Special Thanks
This book would not have been possible without the support of the indie horror author community. You are wonderful folks. Keep up the good work.
Where we’re going, we won’t need eyes… unless we’re writing a book, in which case just one pair of eyes isn’t enough.
A hundred million thanks to my Betas:
Jim Branscome, Tim Murr, Thomas S. Flowers III, Axel Kohagen, Duncan Ralston, Jenny Eng, Mark Scofield, Duncan Bradshaw, Matthew Spicer and Chuck Knight.
As always, the hugest thanks to my chief editor, supporter and bartender: my wife, Hannah. You’re my favorite.
A shout-out to our Acolytes from the Kiss the Goat podcast: you guys are the best kind of fucked-up. Personal thanks to our co-host, Sin Fallon, for keeping the dream alive while I wrote this book.
And thank you for reading this book. Every author writes to be read; thanks for keeping your side of the bargain.
About the Author
Jeffery X Martin lives with his wife, Hannah, somewhere in the sweaty bosom of the Great American South. Together, they host a podcast called Kiss the Goat, which focuses on movies about the Devil. This is his first full-length novel. Follow him on Twitter, on Facebook and as he dances on that thin line between pleasure and pain.
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