by Jen Blood
I nodded. “I need to ask you about your father,” I said to Ashley. “About his history with Jesup Barnel.”
Mae looked confused. “George always hated the reverend.” I ignored her, looking to Ashley. When she hedged, Mae piped up. “Didn’t he?”
“They grew up together,” Ashley said. “And when Barnel first started out, they were actually good friends.”
“Did George ever say anything to you about Billy Thomas?” I asked.
“The boy that killed all those girls back in the ’60s?” Mae asked. Ashley stayed quiet. I fixed her with a long look.
“Daddy never said anything,” Ashley said. “But I remember the first time I ever heard that name. He and Mama had a fight—I think it was about the reverend, but I remember him saying something about him learning his lesson with Billy. That the reverend didn’t have any special powers. I just remember because Mama got so angry.”
“And he never mentioned the name again?” I asked.
“Not that I heard.”
I took a minute to consider that before I continued, switching tacks. “Have you heard from George since he went up to the mountains?”
“He doesn’t have a phone up there,” Mae said. “No electric. He likes it that way.”
I’d expected as much. “So you don’t have any way of reaching him.”
“We can contact the sheriff up there—he usually checks up on him,” Ashley said.
“If I can get a satellite phone to you, would you call him?” I asked.
Ashley nodded. “Of course.”
I wasn’t sure where to go from there. So George had something to do with Billy Thomas; so he might even be one of Barnel’s captives at this point. What good did that do me? I still wasn’t any closer to figuring out where anyone was. I felt myself beginning to flag. We had less than three hours. Something had to give.
“Out at Barnel’s compound, his granddaughter said something about going back to the beginning—where it all went wrong,” I said. “Do you have any idea what that meant? We’ve turned the whole county inside out. It would have to be somewhere with some space, considering the number of people they’re taking. But not so isolated that it wouldn’t shake the town up if something happened.”
Neither of them said anything. And then, Mae looked up suddenly. “The club,” she said.
I shook my head. “What club?”
“The Wilson Club,” she said. “It used to be this factory—years and years ago, there was a toy company run out o’ here, and that was where they set up their operation. Half the town used to work there. I think the reverend might’ve even put in some time, back in high school. I know George did.”
“I remember Diggs mentioning something about it,” I said. “He said someone bought the place, though. That it’s not a club anymore.”
“Well, yeah,” Mae agreed, looking hesitant. “But it’s the only place I can think of where there’d be space like you’re talking about. And I don’t think that new owner’s around much—he’s from California somewhere, I think. Nobody could figure why he even bought the place.”
I stood, a little flush of hope kicking my heart rate up. This could be it. “Thank you—I’ll have them check it out. I really appreciate all your help.”
“You think that’s where they took everybody?” Mae asked. I had the sense she wasn’t allowing herself to hope for the best right now. Too much had happened already. “You think you’ll find Danny there?”
“I don’t know. But it’s a better chance than we had when I walked in here.”
Before I could run out the door to act on this latest shot in the dark, Ashley stopped me with a hand on my arm.
“I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but I’m glad you’re looking for him. You’re the only person I’ve ever met even half as relentless as Diggs is.” The way she said ‘relentless’—like it was some kind of fatal flaw—made it clear this wasn’t necessarily a compliment. “If there’s a way to survive this, I expect you two will find it.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said with an awkward nod.
I assured them I had to get going since the clock was ticking, then scooted out before Ashley went completely nuts and tried to hug me or something. I nodded to Juarez as I breezed past him in the living room, making straight for the front door.
“Let’s go,” I said. “I think we’ve got a lead.”
He didn’t question me until we were back in the truck, then paused with the engine idling.
“So, what’s this lead?” he asked.
“This old factory they turned into a club a few years ago…”
Juarez nodded. “The Wilson Club.” He didn’t say anything for a second. I turned to look at him when he put the truck back in park.
“What the hell are you doing?”
There was a world of regret in his eyes when he spoke again. “Erin, we’ve already been there. We took the place apart.”
“You must have missed something,” I said stubbornly. “I want to go there. Just let me look around.” I touched his arm, holding his gaze. Desperation leaked from my pores. “Jack. I’ve got a feeling about this. Please.”
I expected him to argue. He didn’t. Instead, he put the truck back in gear, pulled out of the drive, and sped up the road.
We drove in silence until we reached a private road with a rusted metal gate across it, just off the beaten path. He pulled in.
“This is it?” I asked.
“This is it.”
He got out, pushed the gate open, climbed back in the truck, and drove through. We continued on for another half mile before a hulking metal building came into view, rising out of the dense foliage like some monolithic monster. THE FACTORY was written in giant block letters across the front. I heard a car engine start, and a minute later a military Humvee drove over and blocked our path.
Juarez got out, hands raised, as two armed National Guardsmen greeted him. I recognized them both from our standoff at the Barnel compound. I hopped out of the truck and joined them.
“You mind if we take a look around?” Juarez asked them.
They both shook their heads. “We’ve been here a few hours now,” the younger of the pair said. “No sign of any activity.”
As soon as I heard the okay, I made for the entrance with flashlight in hand. I slid a giant metal door open, putting my shoulder into it to get the thing to budge. There was a whisper of hope in the back of my head: Maybe they really had missed something.
They hadn’t.
The place was covered in dust and cobwebs, moonlight coming through a broken window high above.
A bar ran the length of one wall, industrial-looking metal stools in front. It was the kind of place you’d expect to find in LA; I couldn’t imagine anyone in Justice, Kentucky, choosing to get their drink on here. Diggs would have loved it back in his drinking days, though—if only for the paradox.
I heard footsteps behind me, and turned to find Juarez headed my way. “You were right,” I said. I shook my head, refusing to acknowledge the tears of disappointment welling in my eyes. “I thought maybe you’d missed something.”
He lay his hand against my cheek, brushing a tear away with his thumb. “I’m sorry.”
“We have to be missing something.”
“Everyone’s out there looking, Erin. We have two hours—the show’s not over yet.”
I realized that through all of this, never once had I heard Jack say, We’ll find him. He’d said they were doing everything they could; that there was still time. But he hadn’t lied to me, hadn’t placated me with words of comfort that he knew might not prove true at the end of the day.
I pulled myself together, brushing the remaining tears from my eyes before I let them fall. Freaking out wouldn’t do Diggs any good.
“Okay,” I said, nodding. “So, it’s not the Wilson Club. What’s next, then?”
He took my hand and led me out, pausing to slide the door shut behind him. I looked back over my shoulder, taki
ng one last glimpse inside. The door was almost closed when the moonlight hit something on the wall high up—level with the second story windows. I held the door.
“Hang on—what’s that?” I pointed up, pushing the door open again as I stood inside. Juarez followed my gaze, shining his light on the spot I indicated.
“I don’t see anything,” he said.
“It was the way the light played off it a second ago,” I said. I paced, playing my light along the wall, trying to get the angle right. After half a dozen passes, I finally succeeded. I froze, keeping the light fixed where it was. My heartbeat thundered in my ears.
“Do you see?” I asked.
He nodded, suddenly serious.
A Latin cross.
Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to remove it, but it was obvious once I had the right spot.
“That has to be at least a few weeks old,” I said. “They were here, Jack.”
“But they’re not here now.”
“It’s a lead,” I said stubbornly. “I know it is—there’s something about this place. It has to mean something.”
“I’ll send someone out to look into it.”
“Look into who owns the place, too,” I said. “They’re not from around here—I think Mae said they were out in California. Whoever it is, I bet they’re the ones working with Barnel.”
“Maybe,” Juarez agreed. He was still quiet. He shut the door again and I double-timed it back to the truck, Jack two steps behind. I took the wheel this time, tired of being the co-pilot, and revved the engine. As soon as he was in, he turned in his seat and looked at me seriously. I knew exactly what he was going to say. I didn’t want to hear it.
“I’m not preparing myself for the worst,” I said.
“How do you know that’s what I was about to say?”
“Because you’ve got a very ‘Prepare yourself for the worst’ look in your eye. And I’m sorry, but I’m not gonna do it. He’s out there somewhere, and he’s not far away. So buckle your goddamn seatbelt, and let’s go find him.”
He smiled a little. “Yes, ma’am.”
I may have laid a little rubber tearing out of the worn-down parking lot, but as far as I was concerned, it was totally justified.
Part III: The Ides of March
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Diggs
02:15:35
Just as Barnel had promised, George Durham was waiting for me when Jenny threw me back into the room. He wasn’t the only one who’d joined us, though—our crew of eleven had swelled to twenty seething, bound, terrified prisoners. The room barely held us all, and it had to be eighty degrees in there, the air humid and stale. A woman in the back wailed, the hysterical gasps of someone long past reason. Everyone else was coiled tight, the tension ratcheted so high that breathing was a chore and violence seemed inevitable.
As I waded through the bodies to get to George, Casey, and Danny, I spotted two of the tweakers I’d seen earlier crouched together in a corner, backs to the rest of us. The taller of the two—gangly, bearded, and shaking—cast a guilty look over his shoulder at my attention, then quickly looked away when we locked eyes.
George had a patch of blood on his shoulder. Even in the surreal glow of our red light, I could tell his color was bad.
“They got you?” I asked, nodding to his arm.
“Clipped me when I tried to get away,” he said. As a kid, I’d always imagined George to be bulletproof. Another childhood fantasy shot to hell.
The wailing woman transitioned from cries to screams—jagged, ear-piercing shrieks that shredded any equanimity I might have been feeling toward the others in our group.
“Somebody shut her up!” a bearded, flannel-wearing guy shouted across the room. He was surrounded by two other men who may or may not have been his brothers.
“Why don’t you shut up? How about a little compassion!” a woman shouted back. Flannel started to make a move, but one of the brothers held him back. The wailing woman quieted. I took a breath, knowing any peace we might have achieved would be short lived.
I scanned the room, studying the motley assemblage. George was the oldest among us, but otherwise Barnel’s reach transcended socio-economic, cultural, and ethnic boundaries. Case in point: a small, sixtyish man in spectacles, undershirt, and tailored slacks stood to George’s left. He caught me looking at him and attempted an awkward smile.
“Diggs,” George said. “This is Dr. Munjoy. He’s a professor over to Smithfield.”
The surprise must have shown on my face. “How do you know Jesup Barnel?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I’ve never met the man,” he said. He was mostly bald, with just a sparse bit of whitish blond hair ringing his pink scalp.
“But you know who he is,” I said.
“Of course,” he said. He had an accent—possibly British. Maybe South African. “I teach psychology at Smithfield. We’re doing a research project at the moment; I’ve done a great deal of work in the fields of Christian fundamentalism and cultist behaviors.”
“Ah,” I said. “That would explain the reverend’s interest in you, I guess.”
He nodded. A couple of twenty-something women stood beside him—good looking, intellectual, and terrified. He introduced them as his graduate students.
“Do you have any idea what Barnel’s got planned?” I asked George.
“Not a clue. I always knew Jesup was crazy as a bedbug, but I never pegged him for something like this.”
“I’m not sure he’s actually calling the shots on this one,” I said, thinking again of Jenny Burkett.
The others looked at me with clear interest. Before I could elaborate, the wailing woman screamed again—so suddenly that nearly everyone in the room jumped. The difference was, this time she didn’t stop screaming.
“Shut up!” Flannel shouted again.
I heard the woman who had come to her rescue before pleading for her to be quiet, but it fell on deaf ears. The screaming escalated until my ears rang and my head ached. Flannel lowered his shoulder and bulled one of his brothers out of the way so violently that he knocked a woman behind him to the ground.
I lowered my voice and addressed Danny and the others in our little clique. “Stay back against the wall, okay? Don’t make eye contact. Don’t engage with anyone. Just stay quiet and keep out of the way.”
They all nodded readily—even George, which spoke to how bad off he actually was. George didn’t take orders gladly from anyone.
I stepped into the fray, headed toward the worst of the trouble.
“We all need to calm down,” I said, raising my voice to be heard above the growing noise. “The only shot we have of getting out of this alive is if we don’t panic, and figure out a way to work together.”
The woman who’d been knocked to the ground managed to right herself, hands awkwardly behind her, and stood. She was painfully thin. Forty-ish. Small and frail looking.
I tried an encouraging smile at Flannel. “Just give me a second—maybe I can quiet her down?”
He nodded.
When I got closer to the source of the screams, I felt another shot of disappointment hit my bloodstream; we might be worse off than I’d thought. The wailing woman was hurt, crouched against the wall with her hands bound behind her back. The side of her head was bleeding—the result of her having beaten it repeatedly into the cement wall. She could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty, her dark hair pulled back from a gaunt face that I expected had been pretty once.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
Her eyes were vacant when she looked at me. The woman who had come to her rescue before answered.
“Glenda,” she said. “There’s something not right about her—mental illness, clearly. Could be she needs meds.”
The other woman had grey hair pulled back into a long braid, her familiar face the worn leather of someone who’d spent a lot of time outside. She smiled as soon as she saw me.
“Daniel Diggins. What in hell is Barnel doin’
, rounding up every sinner that ever crossed his path?”
Sally Woodruff. “I didn’t think he’d gotten you,” I said, thinking of Sally’s clinic: the cross burning in the yard and the broken fountain and the decimated garden. “I went by the place, but the dogs were gone.”
“They didn’t burn the clinic down, then?” she asked. “Well, that’s something, I guess. I got a couple threats. Then after they found Wyatt and that Dairy Queen blew, I figured maybe it was time to take a little vacation. I got the dogs off to the boarder and was on my way out of state when some gorillas in black ’jacked my car and brought me here.”
“Any idea where ‘here’ is?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Hell if I know. They knocked me out… Next thing I know, I’m in a room with the dregs of Kentucky, and Jesup T. Barnel’s telling me I best come clean about my sins.”
Glenda the Screamer had settled down for the moment, her cries giving way to a low, incessant moaning while she rocked. I nodded toward her. “You know anything about her story?”
“She’s got a Medical Alert bracelet, but all that’s on there is her name—Glenda Clifton—along with a couple numbers, and NBD. Stands for Neurobiological Disease. She could have anything from Attention Deficit to schizophrenia.”
“I’m no doctor, but I’m thinking we can rule out ADD as the problem here,” I said.
“A safe assumption,” Sally agreed. She looked around the room and lowered her voice. “You know, I worked with half the folks in here. Not bad people, but they’re not exactly the type you wanna have to rely on when push comes to shove, you know what I mean? Most everybody here’s comin’ off something right now. Rapid detox ain’t my choice in the best of situations.”
“And this isn’t the best of situations,” I said.
“Not by a long shot.” She studied me for a second, looking me up and down. “You look like you been through the ringer. Backwards.”
“It’s been a long week.”
She fixed her intelligent brown eyes on me for a long while, a slow smile touching her lips. “How long you been clean, sweetheart?” she asked.
