The Dead Run (7 page)

 

CHAPTER 9

Y
ou can't,” Sherry hissed. “It's too dangerous. He's got a rifle. And he looks like he knows how to use it.”

She and Eric crouched behind a jutting, knee-high rock, staring at the last obstacle between them and escape: a sentry who paced in lazy, indiscriminate loops, worn shit-kickers raising clouds of knee-high dust. He looked about forty-five, sandy-haired with a bristle-brush mustache, gun slung over the shoulder of his cowboy shirt. Every few seconds, a stream of tobacco juice squirted from his mouth.

“There's no other way,” Eric whispered back. “I can take that fat old fuck. I have to.” He handed her his keys. “The next time he comes close, I'll rush the son of a bitch. Soon as I do, you make a break for the car. I'll meet you there.”

Sherry nodded. She could see Eric's Jeep, parked on the shoulder of the road, no more than a hundred yards away.

Sherry didn't know how far a rifle could shoot, but she was pretty sure that was well within its range.

Eric rose up off his haunches, tensed to spring.

If this were a movie,
Sherry thought,
I'd grab him right now and give him a kiss and say “For luck” or something. We'd have, like, a moment.

In a movie, I wouldn't be shaking like a leaf.

And trying not to piss my pants.

Not that Eric seemed to be in any mood for distractions. His focus on the sentry was total.

Sherry realized she had seen this exact look on his face before, the one time she'd gone to a school swim meet and caught a glimpse of Eric standing on the block, waiting to dive. It was a look of coiled readiness, bespeaking an utter singularity of purpose.

He'd won by a full second that day.

The sentry turned and strolled in their direction. Sherry dug her nails into her palm and rose partway up. Recollections of this place were beginning to unspool inside her—things she'd forgotten or repressed, who could tell which—and this was no time to be traipsing down memory lane.

She shook her head clear, jammed her flip-flops deeper into the back pockets of her jeans.

And inspiration struck.

She nudged Eric, removed the pink scrunchie holding back her hair, and wiggled it at him. Pointed toward the sentry, then leaned around the rock just far enough to toss the thing.

It arced low through the air, a crippled butterfly, and landed soundlessly, paces from his feet, the guy leaning the other way to send another brown stream sluicing from his maw.

He faced front, looked down, and furrowed his brow. Bent at the knees to contemplate the bright elasticized thing snared in the scraggly, dry grass—
Did I not see that before?

Eric seized the moment and sprinted at him. The sentry heard the noise; he looked up in time to straighten, but not fast enough to swing the rifle around. Eric tackled him to the ground, cocked back a fist.

Adrenaline filled Sherry's body, and she ran.

A body thumped against the ground, and she looked over her shoulder, expecting to see Eric springing up and heading for her. Instead, the sentry was on top. Sherry froze, horrified, as he swung and swung again, Eric invisible between his legs, no sound except the muffled crack of flesh meeting bone.

The sentry punched again, then raised his bulk partway to reach behind him for the rifle.

Sherry raced toward it.

He was three feet away. She was thirty.

It was like running in a dream—a nightmare, one of those in which the body is a weak and distant thing. An impediment. An enemy.

And then Eric worked a leg up, slid it between himself and his assailant, knee to his own chin. His foot shot straight out, caught the guy full in the chest. He toppled over, with a sound that threw Sherry's life in reverse, pulled her backward through time.

She was four years old, dropping coconuts onto the driveway with her dad, giggling with delight as they cracked open.

Oh.

Eric was up now, running toward her, urging Sherry on with wide sweeps of his hand. The sentry lay motionless, a crown of blood pooling around his skull and the rock on which it had landed.

The next thing Sherry knew, she was in the passenger seat of Eric's Jeep, filmed head to toe with sweat, the wind snarling her hair as they tore down the road. Eric gripped the wheel with two sets of skinned knuckles. The metallic scent of blood filled up the car.

Sherry let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. “Are you all right?”

Eric grimaced and spit out the window. “Guy knocked out my tooth.” He opened his mouth and tongued the empty space where his top right incisor had been, like a six-year-old waiting for the tooth fairy.

“What about you?” he asked, looking her up and down. “They didn't hurt you, did they?”

Sherry shook her head. “But they would have. I know it.”

It was all coming back to her. The visits. The endless weekends, spent entirely in that clammy, barebones church. Low-voiced, shaky women with growling stomachs. The palest children Sherry had ever seen, forever clutching at their mothers' skirts. The addled, snake-slippery theology, disseminated in tiny dribs and drabs as the guests “visited” with the members, each woman's version different from the next's.

Melinda had loved the piety, the fervor, the sisterhood. All Sherry had known of it was fear.

A sudden jolt of terror tore through her now, and she grabbed Eric's arm.

“Oh my God—my mom! She's in danger. We've got to find her.”

C
ANTWELL'S
A
UDI JERKED
to a stop in front of the compound's meetinghouse, inches from Seth's humble Buick. They hadn't seen a soul on the way in, nor any sign of fortification. Any of the outlying buildings could've been the barn of which Melinda Richards was so terrified, but none was accessible by car. Not without risking your muffler, anyway.

Nichols had revised his investigative approach accordingly.

Walk up to the front door, ring the bell, grin like an idiot.

He gave himself a routine pat-down, making sure his gun, badge, balls, and Ray-Bans were properly situated, then heaved his bulk out into the sweltering afternoon and had a look around.

Cantwell stared at him across the car's roof, Nichols's own fish-eyed visage bouncing off her shades.

“Aren't you forgetting something?” she asked, nodding at the shotgun.

Nichols unfolded his sunglasses and slid them on, the metal frames still cool from the air-conditioned ride.

“Heavy artillery tends to make folks less cooperative. I like to start with a nice friendly chat, build my way up to the armed standoff from there. That work for you, doc, or would you rather wait in the car? 'Cause technically, you know, you really shouldn't be here at all.”

And neither should I,
Nichols thought.

Cantwell's reply was low and even. “These are bad people, Sheriff.”

“And yet, amazingly, they have rights. Some of them even take to a court of law to defend those rights when they get trampled.” Nichols squared his shoulders to her. “Look, whenever it's humanly possible, I do things by the book, because that book was written by smarter sons of bitches than me, and it was written to keep sons of bitches
like
me alive. It's bad enough I'm investigating outside my jurisdiction, on your tip. But until I find some evidence, that's all it is—a tip. So forgive me if I don't start blasting away at everything that moves like this is Grand Theft Auto. We understand each other?”

Cantwell's mouth was drawn tight. “Yes.”

“Peachy. Come on, then.” Nichols hitched up his belt and headed for the building. Halfway there, he turned to her.

“For the record, I got nothing against Grand Theft Auto. It's a damn fun game.”

She dirty-eyeballed him, but one mouth corner twitched upward.

Friends once more.

Nichols, you old softie.

He raised his fist and gave the door a solid double rap.

“One moment, please,” came a call from inside, the voice middle-aged and male.

Nichols banged again,
One moment, please
often a euphemism for
Hold on while I flush my stash,
or
Gimme a sec to tell my wife that she fell down a flight of stairs
. You had to keep the pressure on, make them think you might bust down the door instead of waiting.

“Sir, this is Sheriff Nichols, Del Verde County police. Open up. We need to talk to you.”

“Coming, coming.”

The door opened beneath Nichols's fist, and a balding man with a mild face blinked up at him.

“What seems to be the trouble?”

“I've got some questions for an Aaron Seth.”

“I'm Reverend Seth.” He stepped aside, revealing a simple, spotless foyer of blond wood. “Please, come in. May I offer you a glass of iced tea?”

“We're fine, thanks.”

Nichols and Cantwell followed him into a sparse sitting room, organized around a large stone fireplace. The rattle of an unseen, barely felt air conditioner was the only sound. A hint of lemon Pledge tinged the air.

Seth lowered himself onto a wicker-framed couch and beckoned them into a pair of matching chairs. “You're a long way from Del Verde County,” he said with a smile. “I hope you had a pleasant drive.”

Nichols leaned forward. “I'll get right to the point, sir. We're investigating the disappearance of a teenage girl named Sherry Richards. That name ring a bell?”

“I'm afraid it doesn't,” said Seth. He cocked his head at Cantwell. “Speaking of names, I don't believe I got yours.”

Before Ruth could open her mouth, Nichols pressed on. “Sherry's mother is Melinda Richards. You remember
her,
Mr. Seth?”

“Reverend,” Seth said absently. “Yes, of course. Melinda Richards was once a member of my . . . flock here. But the Lord had other plans for her. I don't believe I ever met her daughter. But if what you say is true, I'll certainly pray for her. We all will.” He dropped his hands to his knees. “I must confess, Sheriff, I'm still at a loss about why you're all the way out here.” Another closed-lipped smile, this one directed at Cantwell. “And who
you
are. You're certainly not dressed for law enforcement.”

The psychologist sprang to her feet. “I'm the one who freed Melinda from your sick little ‘flock,' Seth. I know all about what goes on here—all the girls who're never seen again once you—”

Nichols rose up, spun, and faced her. “That's enough. Sit down. Now.”

Cantwell's eyes looked like they might singe holes in his uniform, but she complied.

Seth never flinched. “So this is the famous Ruth Cantwell,” he said in the same flinty, even drawl. “Just so you are properly informed, Sheriff, I've got a restraining order against her on file with my local police department. She's not legally allowed within a thousand yards of me. I don't suppose she told you that, did she?”

Nichols whirled toward her, his face a gathering storm.

“That true?” he demanded.

She crossed her arms and looked the other way. “He's got a whole team of lawyers whose job is to keep—”

“Wait in the car.”

Seth stood, pocketed his hands, and shook his head at the ground. “Thank you, Sheriff, but that's not necessary. I think I'm beginning to understand what's happened. Dr. Cantwell and others of her ilk have spent years trying to convince the authorities that something unsavory is happening here. God as my witness, sir, none face so much persecution in today's world as men and women of true faith.”

He paced before the fireplace. “The worst that can be said of our community is that we keep to ourselves. We praise God, we live simply, and we love one another. Dr. Cantwell has seen fit to take Melinda Richards away from us—a woman who came to me broken by betrayal and sin, a woman I healed through the grace of God. Dr. Cantwell poisoned her against us. So completely, it would seem, that even now she would attribute her misfortune to me.”

Seth stopped pacing and threw his arms wide. “We have nothing to hide, Sheriff. And certainly no knowledge of your missing girl—neither I nor anyone here. I'm sure you have no permit to search my property, as no judge would grant you one on such a pretense . . .”

He paused, and Nichols allowed his own grim silence to confirm the assumption.

“But I shall render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's. You have my permission to look anywhere you like and speak to whomever you wish. There are no secrets here. I ask only one thing, Sheriff.”

Nichols eyed him warily. “What's that, Reverend?”

Seth flashed another wan, watery smile.

“When you find nothing of interest on my property, kindly remember next time the folly of acting on groundless, malicious rumors. You may enforce the laws of man, Sheriff Nichols, but you are a servant of God. As are we all.”

Nichols gave him a curt nod. “Fair enough.”

“Very good. Now, are you sure you won't have something to drink before you go? The iced tea is homemade.”

“No, thanks.”

“Ms. Cantwell? For you?”

They both stared at him, incredulous.

Seth clasped his hands in front of him. “You see,” he said, “we practice forgiveness here.”

 

CHAPTER 10

E
ach stride was torturous; every exertion pushed the wire deeper into his skin. By the time Galvan reached the summit, there was nothing left of the boy but a set of footprints.

Fucking kid was barefoot.

Galvan tracked him until the marks disappeared, swallowed by the brush some thirty yards off. He straightened, did a slow three-sixty and then another. Nothingness in all directions, far as the eye could see. Galvan mopped the sweat from his brow with a shirtsleeve, allowed himself a head shake and a wry smirk.

Still trying to be a hero
,
huh, Jess?

What an asshole.

Then something threw a beam of sunlight straight into his eyes, and Galvan winced and spun away, all reflex, forearm covering his face. Just as quickly, he straightened, scanned the horizon.

Had to be a mirror. The kid, flashing him. But why?

There—again. A few hundred yards out, up another hill. Galvan set out toward it, pacing himself this time. A nice leisurely jog, as if this desert were a manicured suburb, Galvan a tracksuited exec getting in a quick couple miles before work.

The mirror flashed twice more as Galvan approached, like a lighthouse beacon bringing in a boat. He staggered up one hill after the next, legs growing heavier with each step. Always sure he was closing in, that over the next rise he'd find the boy.

Back of his mind, he knew something was wrong. Why run, only to stop and signal? The kid wasn't a lighthouse. He was a fisherman, reeling in a catch.

Another bad hand to play out.

Galvan reached the top of the next hill and found himself staring down into the shallow valley beyond.

A dirt road wound through it, packed tight by steady travel.

Smugglers' lane. The desert was threaded with them, if you knew where to look. What to look for.

Most, though, you were better off ignoring. Attracted the wrong element, as the expression went.

A truck, mud-spattered and ancient, sat by the roadside.

Dead. Had to be. No other reason in the world to stop here.

Galvan took a few steps down the hillside, crouched in the first bit of shade he'd seen all day, and waited.

Sure enough, a minute later the kid came around the vehicle's side, fiddled with the driver's-side mirror until he caught the sun, and threw a few flashes out across the land. Then he walked back out of sight. Probably to huddle in whatever shadow the truck cast, Galvan thought.

Alongside whoever else was with him.

Galvan stooped—
Fuck
,
that was painful
—and picked up a fist-sized rock. He ambled down the hill, wondering what condition his throwing arm was in these days. He still held Cali's high school record for outfield assists in a season—far as he knew, anyhow. Been a while since he'd checked up on it. He'd once thrown a guy out at first base on a one-hopper to shallow center. Coach benched the sorry son of a bitch for that one.

Galvan was paces from the truck now. Nothing. Nobody. He thought he heard a whisper, froze.

Nothing. Nobody.

Fuck it.

“Hello? Anybody home?”

The sounds of scrambling: feet finding purchase against the dusty ground, bodies banging into the metal of the truck. And then a haggard, sun-parched man staggered into view, leaning on the little boy for support.

Two more followed. One had a shotgun slung across his shoulder. A machete dangled from the other's hand.

Three more came after that.

Unarmed.

Unarmed.

Machete.

The six of them ambled into a loose phalanx, sizing Galvan up. He clenched the rock behind his back, returned the favor.

They looked like death. Flies buzzed their heads, sensing it. It didn't take long, out here—a few hours without water, and your skin started sticking to your skeleton. Brain function slowed to a crawl; the liver and kidneys stopped showing up for work. Whenever Galvan made a run, he packed double water. Had probably saved a dozen lives that way.

No such luck this time.

The boy seemed to be faring better than the men. Could have been they'd given him the last of the water, but these guys didn't strike Galvan as Children Are the Future types. More likely, the kid was the only member of the septet who hadn't prepped for the dawn border run by downing a quart of tequila.

“You gentlemen having some engine trouble?” Galvan inquired.

The moment he said it, the arm squeezing the rock started to tingle, from the fingertips on up, as if he'd just punched something hard and ungiving. He remembered Britannica's sermon about the past and the future, demons and tempura or whatever the fuck. And suddenly, somehow, Galvan understood that his arm was on pins and needles because of a punch he hadn't yet thrown.

A punch coming soon.

Theater near you, and all that shit.

Talk about having the drop.

“Got any water?” the gunman asked, eyeing the canteen slung over Galvan's shoulder. His English was heavily accented, his voice sludgy with disuse. Either the gringo quarter of Galvan's genes had won the battle for dominance, or this sorry bastard was optimistic enough to think he oughta practice the mother tongue of his new country.

“Only a little.”

Dude raised his weapon, showed Galvan the twin black holes. Beckoned with two fingers, Bruce Lee style.

“Give it here.”

“Easy, chief. You got it. Wasn't thirsty anyway.”

Galvan raised his right hand, palm open in a gesture of submission, then used it to lift the canteen off his shoulder by its string. He walked the rest of the way down the hill, dangling it before the man.

It swayed slightly with his steps, like a hypnotist's pendant.

You are getting very sleepy,
Galvan thought inanely.

The guy lowered his gun a few degrees and reached, mouth open, hand fluttering with weakness, want.

Galvan dropped the canteen, grabbed the shotgun by the barrel, and yanked. The gunman stumbled forward with it, off guard and off balance. Never saw the rock come smashing down and turn the right side of his face into the wrong side. He keeled into the billowing dust.

Galvan sidestepped the falling body, grabbed the canteen, flipped the gun around, and trained it on the others.

Two slugs.

Five men.

The math was a bitch.

Galvan took a step back, and then another. Gaining the high ground.

Topologically, if not morally.

The machete men exchanged a look and charged, their blades held high. Galvan clocked the approach vectors, the speed, decided he only had time to drop one.

At least that would leave him with a slug. And besides, if he dropped both, two more guys would pick up the machetes. Hand to hand, he could take a blade.

Always find that silver lining.

Galvan spun and squeezed off at the closer man. The slug only traveled ten feet before it found his chest, lifted him off his feet, deposited his body inches from his compadres with a battle cry still frozen in his throat. Sure enough, one bent to pry the machete from his fist.

And then the other guy was on Galvan, both hands wrapped around his blade, eyes crazed. But there was no strength left in him—just a burst of adrenaline and the wasted shell through which it coursed. Dude was no samurai, either. He swung wildly, left to right; Galvan ducked the knife and slammed the shotgun's butt into his stomach, and the guy crumpled. A second blow snapped his head back. The machete tumbled to the ground.

Galvan picked it up, the hilt still slippery with warm sweat. He brandished his weapons and resumed his backward, uphill retreat, gaze sweeping across the men still capable of standing. That old Yellowman song, “Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt,” played in his mind, Galvan's brain a fucking jukebox even at the direst of times.

So far, so good. Twenty feet between them, everybody playing it cool. Then Galvan and the boy locked eyes.

Looking at his face was like watching water come to a boil. A silent moment passed, and then the kid loosed a wild, inchoate cry and charged straight at Galvan. The men broke ranks and followed, as if this was the signal they'd been waiting for.

Galvan turned tail, dropped his head, and sprinted. Reached the hilltop in twenty hard-pounding seconds, then turned to gauge the pursuit.

The kid was out in front. He found Galvan's eyes again, and this time he had words.

“Take me! Take me with you! Please!”

Galvan paused, despite himself.

A rock whizzed past his head, so close he felt the wind. The men had overtaken the boy. A machete glinted in the sunlight.

“I'm sorry,” Galvan whispered.

And he ran.

It was a long time before he chanced another look behind him. There was nothing left to see by then, no sign of them at all. Just Galvan and the desert. The hot pain of the baling wire. The weight of the heart.

And the faintest trace of the boy's high, desperate plea, drifting through the air.