The whole tale didn't sit well with Frank, and it jogged his memory about his arrival the night before. He had been tired and the other smell he had detected along with the pine odor had slipped by his tired mind. He had been unable to place it and so had ignored it. Peter’s story though had served to place it for him.
He'd had a friend, back in college, that had worked at his father’s meat packing plant on Houston's west side, and Frank had taken the friend up on the offer of part-time work at the plant one summer. He had never been able to stand the smell in the plant though. Strong pine disinfectant, and an under-smell of coppery-blood. That was what the other smell in the house had reminded him of last night, he realized, a slaughter house.
When he'd awoke this morning the smell had been gone, but he was certain it had been there last night.
Frank resolved to check out the house closely later on.
"...doin'?" he heard peters say.
"Huh?" Frank asked.
"I said, how's that beer doin'?" Peters asked again, "I'm fixin' to get myself another. Ya want one?"
"Tell you what," Frank replied, "I'll take a rain check for later on, if you don't mind. I've got to make a couple of phone calls, and I also have a couple of errands to run. It should be my turn to buy anyway, isn't it?"
Peters grinned. "Far be it from me to turn down an offer like that'un, and it maybe just might be. I'll be kickin' around later on. Com'on over when ya git back, and I'll help ya drink a couple fer sure."
Frank said he would and headed back across the road towards the imposing old house.
Once he had reached the door; unlocked it, and stepped inside; he let the breath he hadn't known he was holding escape in a low groan.
The old man’s story, along with his memory of the odor he had smelled the previous evening, had shaken him. He knew it was possible to stick your nose too deeply into a story. He had seen several young, eager kids lose their jobs over stepping on the wrong toes. He had also known a couple of older reporters who had as well, and it also wasn't unheard of for a reporter on the tail of a possibly damaging story to just disappear. Maybe it was unlikely, but not unheard of.
Like Jimmy maybe? His mind asked.
He pushed the thought quickly away, and shifted his attention back to the house, and the odor he had detected last night.
Had something happened here last night? He wondered. Had someone grown concerned over what they suspected Frank might know, and wanted him removed? Was it strictly something to do with the kid, or did the kid just happen to be there at the wrong time?
Frank suddenly realized that if the tire hadn't blown on the rental car that he would have been here. He would have been here for sure, he told himself, and probably a lot earlier than the kid had been. Had someone, or a couple of someone's, been waiting for him? The uncertainties bothered him a great deal. He walked back into the kitchen area where he had entered the house the evening before.
The kitchen still smelled faintly of pine-cleaner, but this time the under odor of blood was not present. He scanned the kitchen area with his eyes, until they fell upon a small white object by the door that led back into the front entrance way.
Frank walked over and bent down next to the small, white square of cloth that lay in the corner by the doorway, and picked it up. His eyes were drawn to a tiny rust colored stain on the cloth.
Blood! His mind told him.
The cloth appeared to have been torn from a shirt, and one small edge of a broken button was still sewn to the tiny scrap of cloth. He made a mental note to ask Peters what the kid had been wearing the night before when he had saw him, but he knew it probably belonged to the kid’s shirt. Frank walked back into the entrance way, to retrieve the screwdriver he had replaced in the cardboard box. Looks like no one will be coming back for this after all, he thought, as he carried it back with him to the kitchen.
Using the screwdriver as a crude pry bar, Frank removed the molding that finished the kitchen wall to the floor. The usual dust and plaster that he had expected to see, was congealed with the dark red blood, which he had also expected to see. Frank replaced the strip of wood using the handle of the screwdriver as a hammer.
It was as he thought. Peters had been more correct than he knew, when he had said it had sounded as though someone was being killed. What did it mean, he wondered, and why hadn't the sheriff of the local community come down when Peters had called him? Did he think Peters was just an old crack pot? Or was it something else?
Frank tossed the screwdriver back in the box as he passed it on the way to the living area. He decided to call the sheriff himself and find out. Obviously someone had been at least seriously injured... killed, Franks mind whispered, and someone should be looking into it.
Frank picked up the phone to call information, but set it back down after only a few seconds. It would be of no use to him, it was dead.
He walked back through the kitchen, left the house; locked the door behind him; and opening the garage door, he climbed into the small red car and keyed the ignition... Nothing happened.
Frank, who was starting to feel a little nervous, went around to the front of the car, lifted the hood, and peered down into the engine compartment.
The battery cables were both cut and it looked like whoever had done the job had thought a little overkill was in order, as they had also removed all the wires running into the small greasy distributor cap. Frank looked around the small garage, but the wires were nowhere in sight.
"Fuck me," he muttered, as he removed the prop rod and let the hood fall back down with a loud clang. He kicked the front tire of the small car viciously as he walked past it on his way towards the house.
"Bastards," he said aloud.
Frank was sure now, that he had gotten himself into something deep this time. He could no longer pretend about that at all. His mind continued to run through the growing list of suspicions he had, as he walked around the side of the house searching for the phone line.
As it turned out the phone line came in through the back of the house. It was cut, and as with the car, whoever had done it had thought maybe a little more overkill was in order. They had cut an additional ten feet or so of it, and had apparently taken it with them when they had left.
The remainder terminated about three inches above Frank's head. Angry, but also a little shaken, Frank turned to start across the road to see if Peters had a phone. He had just begun to turn, when a horn blared on the highway.
Frank turned just in time to see the old man leave the mouth of his dirt driveway and wave as his old Plymouth farted blue smoke and drove away.
Peters waving hand had followed the honk, and Frank, not really thinking all that clearly, had raised his own hand and waved good-by as the car disappeared down the road.
Frank mentally kicked himself, as he gazed down the now empty stretch of highway.
"Shit!" he muttered. "Guess I'm going to do a little walking."
Frank closed up the garage and headed down the road. Two miles down he turned right, and headed towards the service station he had stopped at the previous night. When he arrived hopefully he would be able to get the old guy to come back and fix the car.
If he's there, he thought. The way things are going today he probably won't be.
When Frank arrived at the gas station, the old man walked out to greet him.
"Howdy," Bill Freeman queried, "blow out another tire?"
"No... Looks as though some kids might have had themselves some fun with my car though," he lied, "they ripped out the distributor wiring and cut the battery cables on me."
"That so?" Bill questioned, "Seems as though them city kids is always up to something, and it ain't the first time it's happened."
Frank, who knew it hadn't been any City kids, nodded his head in agreement. He climbed into the wrecker beside Bill, and rode along as bill retrieved the red Toyota and towed it back to the garage for the second time in as many days.
It only took an hour for Bi
ll to replace the wiring and cables, and after Frank paid him, he had stopped at a small store he had passed on the way to pick up something to eat, and a case of beer he hoped would pry a little more out of Peters.
While he had been standing in the garage waiting on Freeman to fix the car, he had begun to wonder if he were overreacting. He had come close more than once to asking Freeman if he could use his phone to call the Sheriff. In the end he decided against it. Best to wait. Talk to Peters again and see what he could get out of him. If it turned out someone really had been injured or even died in the house the night before, he could call the Sheriff then.
When Frank got back to the old house he pulled the car back into the garage, and this time he locked it before he went back into the house.
He popped the top on a fresh brew, and drank it as he built two monstrous sandwiches; grabbed another cold beer, and walked into the living area to sit down.
The dining area had a long oak table, he had noticed, but Frank had always taken his meals into the living room at home, or out on the rear deck, and old habits were hard to break.
He had started this particular habit after Janey had died. The kids were usually in bed or at Maggie's for the night, by the time he ate, and the television took the edge off the loneliness he had felt trying to eat in the kitchen.
When he finished he headed back towards the kitchen to get another beer. He had just entered the hallway when his eyes told him that something was wrong. It took a few seconds of looking around the empty hallway, before he realized what it was. The box that he had put the old locks back into was gone.
He remembered tossing the screwdriver back into it earlier, and it had been right by the front door. He had replaced it there himself last night, after he had installed the locks, and it had still been there just a short while ago when he had retrieved the screwdriver to pry the molding loose in the kitchen.
Frank walked warily to the front door and opened it. It was not locked, and he was sure he had locked it.
Someone, he realized, had been in the house while he was gone.
Might still be, his mind told him.
Frank closed the door and re-locked it. He quietly set the empty beer can down on the floor by the door, and began searching the house.
When he had searched all the rooms, except the bedroom he was now entering, he had begun to wonder if his imagination was working overtime. The house seemed empty. Frank looked around the room silently and cautiously, noticing that the laptop bag that he had placed on the dresser was still there.
He looked under the bed.
Nothing, he saw, and getting up returned to the dresser. He was mentally chiding himself as he opened the laptop bag, but stopped as the bag popped open, to reveal only an empty satin lining.
"Shit," he muttered, "all the damn notes are gone along with the laptop."
The realization frightened him, as the missing notes confirmed all the suspicions he had. No one would want them, unless they were specifically connected to the investigation he was conducting. He knew now that the killer, or killers, had been after him all along.
Frank let the case fall shut, not bothering to fully close or lock it, and went back down to the kitchen with the suitcase he had picked up in the bedroom.
He now knew that he was in real danger. If the killer had tried once, it wasn't unreasonable to assume that he or they would know by now they had gotten the wrong person. When they did figure it out they would be back, he knew, and Frank had no intention of being there when they did. He also had no intention of letting them get away if they did come back, and he could catch them.
I wonder if old man Peters really is as salty as he seems to be? Frank thought. His place would be a good place to sit and wait for them to come back, and on the heels of that thought came another. I wonder if he has a gun, or an old deer rifle? Probably, Frank thought. Hadn't he said earlier that he used to do some hunting when he was younger?
Frank was pretty sure he had mentioned hunting when he had been rambling on about the old dog he had once owned.
Either way it would be a lot safer there than here, he told himself.
With his mind made up, Frank stuffed the beer and the groceries back into the bag and walked out the back door. He decided to leave the small car in the locked garage, to make it appear as though he was still in the house.
Frank walked behind the house, peered around cautiously, and entered the woods behind it, walking a long curving route around the old place until he found the highway once again.
As he crossed the road and entered the woods on the other side to cover himself as he moved towards old man Peters' house, he realized how stupid he would look to someone if they had seen him walking through the woods with a grocery bag. He remembered then that he had left the suitcase sitting on the kitchen floor.
I guess it'll be staying there for a while, he thought, as he tramped deeper into the woods.
He came out in back of Peters' house, and quickly walked the ten yards from the tree line to the house. The car was still gone, he saw, as he entered the unlocked rear door. After putting the sack in the refrigerator, he moved to the living room.
He sat in the old man’s recliner, drinking a beer as he stared out the window at the house across the road and opened a fresh pack of cigarettes. He smoked, as he waited for Peters to return.
Jeremiah Edison
The two men faced each other across the playing board. The younger man thought for a second, and then moved a nearby red checker towards the other side of the board in a series of jumps; set it down, and said, "King me."
The older man obliged, and then with his chin in his hand sat studying the board.
He had only two black checkers left, neither of which were crowned. He smiled and moved one forward a space. The young man reciprocated by jumping both of the remaining pieces, and removing them from the board.
"Ain't often I kin say I beat the Lord," he said, and smiled at the older man.
The older man smiled back at him. "Guess you're just too good for me”, he said. ”Jeremiah...I was wondering if you would like to take a little walk with me. I have a couple of things on my mind I wanted to talk to you about, do you mind?"
"Mind? Heck no I don't. I was gittin' a bit itchy about thing's myself," Jeremiah replied.
They had both been talking during the checkers game, and Jeremiah had been waiting for an opportunity to ask about how things were going. But how did you ask God what he's been up to? He wondered.
"You just ask," the kindly older man said.
Jeremiah was sure that he hadn't spoken the question out loud, but it wasn't the first time the man had seemed to read his thoughts, and he had actually become accustomed to it.
Jeremiah blinked his eyes, and when he opened them, he found himself standing in a small stand of woods with a stiff, though cool, wind blowing long dead leaves across his shoes.
He did not feel inclined to question it. It had happened before. One minute they would be in one place discussing something, and the next instant they would be somewhere else. He was used to it.
The older man stood beside him staring at a freshly turned rectangular patch of ground before him, which had been swept clean by the wind.
"His blood cries out to me," he said.
Jeremiah could somehow see through the dirt, and down into the earth where a young man lay encased in the soil.
"One of many," the older man said, "Look," his finger pointed at the ground.
They were in a small alleyway in what looked to Jeremiah to be a very bad section of a large city.
A young girl struggled desperately, as two men ripped at her clothes.
Tears leaked from the older man’s eyes, and Jeremiah could feel his own tears falling onto his cheeks. He tried to move but couldn't.
"Don't," the older man cautioned. "Look!"
Jeremiah was standing at the base of an old wooden cross, looking up into the eyes of the man who hung there.
"I
t has never changed, Jeremiah," the man on the cross said, "It will never change until I force it to change."
The man on the cross was crying as well, Jeremiah saw.
"I love them so much, but it has never changed."
Jeremiah's eyes were suddenly assaulted with images that seemed to go on forever. Horrible human atrocities of every imaginable kind, and the older man held him as he sobbed.
"Do I have to see so much? Do I have to see it?" Jeremiah asked.
As quickly as the images had come, they disappeared, and they were back at the table, with the checker board spread out before them. The older man held Jeremiah's hand in his own.
"I felt the question in your heart," the older man said. "I did not want to hurt you, but I want you to know that I have no choice."
Jeremiah nodded his head. He knew that he never would have been able to look at some of the things the man had shown him.
"When?" Jeremiah asked.
"Tomorrow," the older man answered. "Will you be able?"
Jeremiah thought for a second. Not about the answer, but the things he had seen.
"Yes, Lord," he answered, "I'll be as ready as I kin be anyway."
"I knew you would," the older man said, "and I truly wish it could be different." He seemed to think for a second, and then changed the subject.
"Have you picked a place to settle?" he asked.
"I saw a right nice place just today," Jeremiah replied, "when we was looking over Oklahoma."
The older man smiled. "I had hoped so, Jeremiah, I think Maggie will like it just fine too. I cannot wait to meet her in person."
"I 'spect she will," Jeremiah answered, "and I know she's lookin' forward to it. We talked about it the other night."
"So you did, so you did," the older man agreed. "Hey?" he questioned, and waited for Jeremiah's eyes to turn to him. "How about another game? And try to go a little easier on me this time, Okay?"
Jeremiah grinned as he began to set up the checkers. "Best three out'a five?" he asked.
The older man nodded his head. "Wouldn't have it any other way," he agreed, as he began to set up his side of the board.
Earth's Survivors Box Set [Books 1-7] Page 171
