Stone Groove Page 19

  Arancia’s sleek profile was much more suited to air travel. Dale dropped his gun onto the passenger seat then held on tight with both hands. The crest of the hill appeared before him. Then there was nothing but sky. His gun drifted up, its shiny, nickel-plated form suspended in the air. A tiny satellite. Arancia’s engine, now unencumbered by tire-to-road friction, screamed. Then the gun dropped, and so did Arancia’s nose, bringing the horizon back into view. Arancia touched down hard but, mercifully, completely on her tires. No metal.

  The ambulance took a couple of hard right turns, putting it on Beverley Street. The heart of downtown Staunton. Dale grabbed the gun. There were flocks of people milling about downtown. He had to bring this vehicle down. Right now.

  He took the corner onto Beverley tight, clipping a crate of fruit outside the corner grocer. The crate erupted with—fittingly—oranges that thumped over Arancia’s hood and top. They popped beneath her tires.

  Dale pulled in close to the ambulance. It started to swerve in big arcs, left and right, snaking its way down the street and glancing off the edges of the sidewalks. People standing outside the stores and restaurants screamed, ran inside.

  There was a sandwich-style barricade sign by an open manhole cover on the left side of the road, and the ambulance pulled to the right to miss it. This gave Dale a chance. He shot once from the Model 36, double-action, missing.

  The ambulance swerved again, and then, with a cloud of torched rubber smoke and a shrieking sound, it turned sideways and headed into an alley.

  Dale guided Arancia right behind it, sticking to it like a magnet.

  It was a wide alley, and the ambulance had enough room to continue its swerving tactics. A pile of cardboard boxes sat outside one of the buildings. The two vehicles crashed through. Corrugated paper flew in all directions.

  Brake lights. The wheels on the ambulance locked up, smoke billowing from the rear tires. There was a brick wall at the end of the alley. A dead end.

  Dale slammed on his own brake pedal. The Pantera’s four-wheel disc brakes brought it to a sudden stop. His chest slammed into his seatbelt.

  The ambulance had a harder time with it, rocking and jolting to a halt several feet away.

  Dale slapped the stick into neutral, yanked the parking brake, and jumped out. He crouched behind the door and took out his gun. Sometimes he had to use Arancia as a shield. He hated it. He ought to be taking a bullet for the Pantera, not the other way around.

  He flicked off the siren. The emergency light remained flashing.

  “Step out of the vehicle!”

  The ambulance was motionless. Dale watched, looking for movement. Nothing.

  He stood up, paced toward the ambulance. His gun swung back and forth between the driver and passenger side. Darnell could sneak out either way. Chances were, he was armed.

  The sound of Dale’s footsteps was just audible over the two idling engines.

  Another step forward.

  He repositioned his grip on the Smith.

  The ambulance’s reverse lights came on. Tires squealed, and it lunged backwards. Coming right at him.

  And Arancia.

  Dale fired three shots into the passenger-side tire. It exploded into long, flapping shreds. The rear corner of the ambulance crashed to the ground. It swerved to the right in a tight arc.

  Dale barrel-rolled to the side as the ambulance flew by him. It smashed into the brick wall. The impact shook the buildings. The rear corner of the ambulance crumpled—right where Susan would be. A hubcap zipped toward Dale, rolling in circles until it clanked on the ground.

  He stood. The ambulance now rested at an awkward angle against the wall. The two wheels on the driver side were off the ground. They spun to a stop.

  He raised his gun at the driver side door and sprinted to the rear of the ambulance. The right door was smashed. The left was intact. He tried the door handle. Locked.

  “Susan?”

  No reply. Both of the windows in the back doors were shuttered. He tried to peer in but could see nothing.

  He banged on the door. “Susan!”

  Again there was no response.

  He moved to the side of the vehicle and cautiously crept toward the front. The driver’s door, angled as it was, hid Darnell from view. Dale could see only his shoulder.

  He smacked a fist against the ambulance. “Federal agent. Get out of the vehicle.”

  There was the click of a seatbelt detaching. The door began to open. It creaked on its hinges, and Darnell had to push against gravity to get it open. When the door fully opened, Dale saw something he didn’t expect.

  It wasn’t Darnell Fowler in the seat.

  The gun dipped in Dale’s hand. The man was in his mid-thirties and wearing Marshallite clothes. He stared at Dale with an empty smile. That familiar glassed-over look was in his eyes.

  Dale took a step back to make room for him, keeping the gun aimed right at him. “Get out and put your hands over your head.”

  The man did as he was told, struggling to pull himself out of the upturned cab and then clasping his hands behind his head. His smile grew wider.

  “Open the back of the vehicle.”

  “Not who you were hoping to find, am I?” the man said in a singsong voice. “You were expecting Darnell Fowler, the Man in Black.”

  “I said open it.”

  The man walked to the rear of the ambulance. Dale took a few steps back and kept the Model 36 fixed on him as he opened the back doors. The man swung the door open wide.

  There was nothing there. Just shelves, supplies, and two empty gurneys.

  Dale’s mouth opened.

  “You were hoping to see Susan Anderson,” the driver said. “I am certainly sorry to disappoint you once again.”

  Dale rushed forward and grabbed the man by the shirt. “Where is she?”

  “She is with the Man in Black. He has asked me to pass a message to you. You need to return to the Sheriff’s Office. Otherwise you might miss his call.”

  “What call?”

  “That is all I’m permitted to tell you.”

  Dale looked from the man to Arancia and back to the man again. He patted the man down. He was clean.

  Dale groaned and put his gun back in its holster. “Get in the damn car.”

  Chapter 44

  The Man in Black was driving south down Highway 11, the historic staple of the Shenandoah Valley, headed back to Staunton. Such a gorgeous day. Bright blue sky, big clouds. He had the window down, and the breeze felt nice. If anything, it was just a bit too warm. His back was starting to sweat a little.

  Brad Walker would be in no position to enjoy the lovely weather. Right about now, he was busting into the hospital room. Hopefully he would even take the bait and chase after the ambulance. The Man in Black was particularly proud of that little scenario he’d concocted with the ambulance, and it would be a shame if it went to waste.

  In the seat next to him was Susan Anderson, the woman he’d seen coming out of Walker’s hotel room the last night. She was unconscious.

  His man in the ambulance had met him at the predetermined location five minutes prior, the parking lot of an abandoned store not a mile away from the hospital where they transferred the woman between the vehicles. It had been a risky operation, but it went off without a hitch.

  He had unbuttoned her blouse down to her stomach. Her breasts were big and soft-looking. They shook with the motion of the drive. He’d promised himself that he would do no more, that he wouldn’t do the things that Father had done. It was an exercise in ascetic self-control. But seeing them shake like that, he decided he would give himself one small treat. He reached out and grabbed one of her breasts. It was velvety and warm and made him moan out loud.

  The car hit a bump, and her head rolled to the side. Her lips were open, as were her eyes, ever so slightly, slits revealing a little white.

  He still couldn’t believe the luck that he’d had when he saw her leaving Brad’s motel room. What had al
ready been a foolproof plan was now bordering on genius. When life presented opportunities, he always took advantage of them.

  If Brad Walker had one weakness, it was the ladies. The Man in Black was disappointed in himself for having not already thought to exploit this weakness. He was systematically attacking everything that made Brad what he was. The riddles in his ridiculous books. His sense of honor. Now, he got a chance to destroy his weakest link—women. And soon enough, he was going to strike a lot closer to home.

  If Brad was worried about Susan, wait until he saw what the Man in Black had in store for him next. The problem was going to be getting there. It was another flight of fancy on his part, and it was gonna be a headache. It would take hours just to get there and back. In that time, he’d have to incapacitate Susan again, and that was yet another chore. All the work, though, would be worth it in the end.

  But first, he had a phone call to make.

  Chapter 45

  Dale walked across the lobby of the Sheriff’s Office to where Brown, Wilson, and Taft were circled around a desk. Behind him, a sheriff’s deputy escorted the ambulance driver, now in handcuffs, across the room.

  “How’s Caitlin?” Dale said.

  “She’s as panicked as a corncob in a hen house, but she’ll pull through,” Brown said. “Did you catch the son of a bitch?”

  “I caught the wrong son of a bitch, as it turns out. Get that man some medical help, Sheriff. He’s going to need it.”

  “What in the world do we do now?” Wilson said.

  “I’m waiting for a phone call.”

  “A phone call?” Taft said. “Conley—”

  The office phone rang. Dale held up a finger.

  The desk sergeant who took the call scrunched his face and looked out into the office. He put his hand over the receiver. “Sheriff, is there someone named Brad Walker around?”

  Dale sighed and walked over to the desk sergeant. “It’s for me.” He took the receiver. “Who’s this?”

  A menacing voice came from the other line, but it wasn’t that of Darnell Fowler. It was cool and even, with a hint of Texas twang. “So snippy. Is that any way to talk to an old friend?”

  It was Glenn Downey.

  “Glenn?”

  A freight train of confusion crashed through Dale’s brain, shredding synapses as it went. He reached for the table in front of him, caught himself, tried to make sense of the fact that the man was alive. The man who had nearly destroyed his life was talking to him once again—a man who was supposed to be nothing but a charred corpse at the bottom of the sea.

  “That’s right,” Glenn said. “The notorious. Back from the dead. By now I’m sure you’ve figured out from my little clues that things are connected back to the Collective Agricultural Experiment and that Camden Marshall was merely one of my pawns, so I thought I’d call and congratulate you on making it this far.”

  “This can’t be real.”

  “It’s very real. But do you really want to spend your time arguing with me on whether or not my existence fits with your perception of the past? Glenn Downey is back. And the question is, how are you going to deal with that as you move forward with your investigation?”

  “What do you want, Glenn? Why are you doing this?”

  “‘Glenn.’ The last time I saw you, you were calling me ‘Father.’ Call me ‘Father.’ Now.”

  This was the sort of thing that Glenn used in the camp to maintain control over his subjects. The use of titles. The strong, commanding language. As the lead investigator of the case, if Dale allowed Glenn to think he could control him now, it could prove disastrous.

  “No,” Dale said.

  “If you want to see any of these people alive again, you will address me as ‘Father.’ But I know what you’re thinking right now—he’s bluffing. Allow me to prove how serious I am. Look out the window.”

  Dale grabbed the base of the phone and walked to the window.

  Across the street, a man in Marshallite clothing stood on the sidewalk by a pay phone. He made eye contact with Dale, put a revolver to his head, and fired. The crack of the shot roared through the office.

  Dale sucked in a breath. Wilson, Taft, and the sheriff ran out of the building.

  “I assume I now have your attention?” Glenn said.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes …?”

  Dale thought of the barking incident with Marshall. The humiliation. When people did these things to another human being, its purpose was two-fold. One reason was to break the other person’s spirit. The other was the thrill, the same thrill gained by rapists and rotten bully kids, a putrid sort of satisfaction.

  But, like in the interrogation room, Dale knew that he had to do it.

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Good,” Glenn said. There was a pause, and he exhaled. Dale could hear saliva smack between his lips. “There are one hundred thirty-two souls left. I suppose I’ve left you dangling on the line long enough. I’ll let you know what I want in exchange for the rest of the people.”

  “Which is?”

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You’re the only one who escaped, the only one who I didn’t touch forever.”

  Glenn’s erroneous megalomania hadn’t changed. “You’re wrong,” Dale said. “Five people fled that night. Five people were strong enough to not take your poison.”

  “Yes, but those people will never be the same. Not after that last night. No amount of head-shrinking will ever take that night from their memory. I’ll be with them forever. With all of them but you.”

  Glenn was wrong again. Spencer too had survived and regained his identity. Thank goodness.

  “So what do you want from me?” Dale said.

  “I want you to come out to the ol’ homestead. Tonight. Unarmed and alone. Truly alone this time, not like those little stunts you pulled in Roanoke and Manteo. You bring anyone else, and I start killing these people. You got that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll have snipers posted all over the camp. As you’ve seen from recent events, these folks really are quite loyal to me. They’ll have no qualms shooting one of your associates.”

  “Alone. Got it. What have you done with Susan?”

  “Ladies always were your Achilles heel. Don’t worry. We’ll keep her safe and warm. I’ll see you tonight, then. Close it out.”

  Dale shuddered.

  Glenn was telling him to use the standard closing for any conversation between the Father and one of his children at the CAE. It was another one of his methods. Everything was some form of control over his followers.

  “I said close it out,” Glenn barked when Dale didn’t immediately respond.

  Dale spoke slowly. Despite having tried to forget them for the last four years, the words came back to him perfectly. “Dearest Father, I am a sinner, and I beg forgiveness. For all that you give, I am thankful.”

  Dale felt unclean.

  Glenn chuckled. “Very good. Until tonight.”

  There was a rattle of the phone on the other end, and the line went dead. Dale slowly lowered the receiver from his ear and handed it back to the sergeant.

  Dale’s pulse was supersonic. He had known for some time now that there was a connection between the CAE and the Marshall case, but now he knew there was much more than a connection. The two were one and the same. Glenn Downey was back in his life.

  Knowing he would face Glenn again was terrifying enough, but the memory that was forced to the forefront of his mind was even worse. The memory of leaving Spencer behind. He’d watched from the ship as they dragged him back into the camp. He left him with Glenn. Even after Glenn warned him what would happen to Spencer if they ever tried escaping again.

  After the meeting in Dale’s cottage.

  Chapter 46

  Brad Walker stood in his cottage. It had been less than seventy-two hours since he and Spencer tried to escape through the woods. The lashes across his chest still blazed and made his skin f
eel tight and rigid. His muscles were weak from the blows, and it was hard to stand. But he was not backing down from this confrontation.

  Glenn Downey was in front of him. It was a muggy day, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up, buttons undone halfway down his scraggly chest. He had expelled all the other people from the cottage, leaving just him and Brad.

  Brad’s hands were rigid and twitchy, ready to curl into fists at any moment. He was prepared for anything. Glenn’s temperament had been hurricane-violent lately, and many of his children had suffered the cost. The man’s eyes were bloodshot, and there were sweat rings on his shirt. His chest was glistening wet. None of his children believed he was any less than the Son of God, even in this current state, but Brad recognized the signs of a junkie.

  “I’m glad to get a chance to talk to you alone. Man to man,” Glenn said. “I’ve come to propose a gentlemen’s agreement.”

  “About what?”

  “I fully understand that the rest of the people here only converted because they see something in me. Something that they wanted to see. But you and your little buddy came as spies. It takes a lot of extra work to convert the resistant mind, but it can be done.”

  “Not this mind.”

  “Not yet, maybe. You’re like the stallion that just can’t be ridden.” Glenn smiled. “But your little colt—he can be broken. It’s already happening. You’ve noticed.”

  Brad had indeed seen the changes in Spencer in the three days since the night they tried to escape through the woods. The night they were caught. Tied to the beds. Beaten. Since then, Spencer was different. It showed in the way he spoke, the way he conducted himself at the White Nights. If Brad didn’t get him out of here soon, Glenn would own his mind like everyone else’s. Brad would be the only one in the camp that Glenn didn’t control.