Darker Things (The Lockman Chronicles #1) (21 page)

His stomach twitched like a big nervous slug.

“What are you going to do?” the woman asked.

“It will be easier if you don’t talk.” Easier for him, anyway.

“Who are you people? Why are you doing this?”

She had no idea why she was here. Charles wondered why Mr. Dolan hadn’t shared with her the glory of enlightenment. Wouldn’t she want to know that her husband’s spirit had been brought back? Knowing that, wouldn’t she want to join them?

But it sounded like she was the only way to destroy the ghost on the loose. She had to be sacrificed, just as many others were sacrificed to harness the great powers.

“Are you going to kill me?”

Charles hovered his hand over the selection in the toolbox, uncertain which would provide the necessary energy to banish the ghost. He understood the rudimentary physics behind the supernatural. Much of the work behind splitting the barrier between here and another reality involved high levels of emotional distress. Somehow that distress generated the power necessary to create a rift. Not all rifts—very few, in fact—manifested as an actual tear, though. It wasn’t like walking through a door, it was more like pulling—or throwing—something through the surface of a pool.

In this case, Mr. Dolan must have figured the emotional connection between the husband’s ghost and his living wife would provide the necessary means to send him back where he came from. Charles was curious how the ghost had been summoned in the first place. As far as he knew, mortal spirits didn’t respond well to living mortal command. Raising one ghost was hard enough. And yet, Mr. Dolan planned on raising an army of them. Charles’s rank in the Movement did not qualify him to know the method behind such a feat.

“You’re hesitating.”

Charles looked up from the toolbox at the woman. The agony in her expression had softened some. The effect only reinforced her motherly appearance.

“I’m just trying to work some things out.”

“How old are you?”

The hammer. It would work to start. He pulled it out of the box and tested its weight in his hand.

“You can’t be much older than twenty.”

He needed to work her up before death. He would have to start small. He could hammer at her knee caps.

“I have a son not much older than you.”

“You need to shut up now.”

“I don’t need to do anything. If you’re going to kill me, I have nothing to lose.”

He took a step toward her. She sat with her legs tucked under her, her body twisted to the side to accommodate the way her hands were cuffed to the pipe. “Stick your legs out straight.”

“I’m sorry honey, but I’m not going to do that.”

He feinted with the hammer. “Do it.”

She tucked her chin against her chest and scrunched up her face, anticipating the strike. When it didn’t come, she looked up at him, eyes watery, quivering lips. She did not move her legs for him.

“Are you nuts, lady?”

“Do you really expect me to make it easy for you to torture me? You want me to move my legs, move them your damn self.”

A shrill hysteria wrapped her words like barbed wire, but he still couldn’t believe the way she was talking to him

“You don’t want to do this,” she said. “Otherwise you would have already started.”

“Lady, what I want doesn’t make a bit of difference.”

“God gave everyone free will.”

Charles lifted the hammer over his shoulder. “The man I work for doesn’t give a damn about God. I’m sorry.”

He swung the hammer.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Turned out the address Creed had on file for Benjamin Tanner was no longer valid. But the location of his sister’s funeral plot sat within Detroit’s city limits. Lockman and Creed both figured, based on Tanner’s psychological profile, that he wouldn’t move far from where his sister was buried. So Lockman prepped himself for a long surveillance.

“Can you watch her for me?”

“You trust me enough?”

Lockman and Creed stood by the kitchen table, Tanner’s file spread across the surface—photos, maps, and pages of data that included a full psychological profile as well as a family tree and medical records dating back to early childhood.

Lockman looked over all the papers. “You have a file like this on me.” Not a question, but a way to deflect the conversation Creed seemed to want to have that Lockman did not. Talking about trust did nothing more than rub the shine off of any trust already there.

“It’s not as extensive. Tanner was one of my first men. And since he did a lot of internal affairs work for me, I had to know more about him than most.”

“You have my records from when I was a kid?”

Creed’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking about that?”

“Just wondered since I don’t have much memory of that time myself.”

Creed clapped him on the back. “I wouldn’t worry about it. And don’t worry about Jessie, either. I’ll guard her with my life.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“So you
do
trust me?”

Lockman stared at him a moment. “I trust you know that if anything does happen to her, I’ll get the tools back out and I won’t stop until you’re dead.”

Creed raised his eyebrows and pressed his lips together. “You couldn’t have just said ‘yes’ to make me feel better?”

“Not my style.”

Lockman found himself wondering about Jessie while he sat in his car inside the entrance to the cemetery. He sipped a bottle of water. He wanted to chug it. Even with the windows down, the heat seemed to sap every bit of moisture from his body. But he had another long day ahead of him. The water would go right through him and then he would have to urinate. He was prepared to use one of the empty water bottles to relieve himself in, but the less he had to do that, the better.

This was day two of his cemetery stakeout and already he felt antsy. In the past he had conducted surveillance jobs that went on for weeks. He didn’t have that kind of patience anymore. The only thing that kept him settled was thinking about Jessie, conjuring what if scenarios about how life could be after this was over with. Ridiculous ideas that had him playing a major role in her life.

Not all of the what ifs held such a cheerful sheen, though. Sometimes he worked out worst case scenarios. Many of them ended with one or more of them dead—him, Kate, Jessie.

Bored beyond the reach of any mind games, Lockman picked up the pre-paid cell phone he bought shortly after arriving in Detroit. He dialed Creed’s number, which he had programmed into the phone.

Jessie answered.

“Where’s Victor?” Lockman asked.

“He’s here. But I saw it was you on the caller ID. I figured you wanted to talk to me.”

“You did, huh?”

She laughed. “You’ve only called about a hundred times to check if I’m okay. I’m fine. Mr. Creed is pretty cool, actually. He’s telling me stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

“About you, of course. Did you really have a priest bless a fire hydrant so you could wipe out a vampire nest with a fire hose?”

“Not single-handedly. My team backed me up.”

“That is so awesome.”

“Are you going to say it?”

She groaned. “It’s so lame.”

“It’s not lame. It’s a precaution. If you are safe, say it.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Good. Next time I call, the phrase will be, ‘The farm sure is beautiful.’”

“You make these up on the spot, or did you write a list.”

Lockman drew a pen from the center console and crossed off a line in the spiral notebook on the passenger seat. “I make them up as I go.”

“Okay. Now that I’ve said the secret phrase, is there any progress on your end?”

Lockman rubbed the stubble on his face and realized it didn’t qualify as stubble anymore, but more like the beginning of a beard. “Quiet so far. Did Creed have any more luck tracing Tanner in the area?”

“He says he’s tapped out. If Tanner’s in the area, he’s covered his tracks.”

“And you’re sure he’s treating you okay?”

“Do I sound like I’m in distress?”

He did feel a little better after establishing their routine with the code phrases that he changed every time he spoke to her. If Creed had any connection to Dolan, even remotely, Dolan would have hit the house by now. He wouldn’t be talking to Jessie.

Which only made things look worse for Tanner.

A light green compact car pulled into the cemetery grounds. Lockman tried to peer through the car’s windows to see the driver. He couldn’t make out details. It did look like a man. And he was alone.

“You still there?” Jessie asked.

“I’ll call you back in a bit.”

He disconnected the call and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. He watched the car drive toward the center of the grounds. The basic layout of the cemetery mimicked a wagon wheel with blacktopped roads that fed out of a center hub, each spoke ending in a sort of cul-de- sac. Plenty of trees lined the roads, providing shade to the graves nearest these paths. The only change in the standard pattern was at the entrance. An additional pathway curved off to the cemetery’s main office. Lockman had chosen this driveway to set up shop and had paid off the groundskeeper to keep his questions to himself. It gave him the perfect vantage point to watch vehicles enter the grounds and he found a spot where he could see through to the central hub. Depending on which way the vehicle turned from there, Lockman would know if it warranted further study. He had taken note of how to get to Tanner’s sister’s plot.

The green compact pulled through and disappeared behind a line of maple trees. A few moments later, the car returned to view in the hub and took a ninety-degree turn to the left.

Toward the sister’s grave.

Lockman started the car, hoping he could finally end this. The compact didn’t look like anything Tanner would drive. He always favored sleek, impractical cars that either went too fast or burned too much fuel—or both.

Fifteen years changed things, though. Lockman wondered if Tanner had a family now. Kids of his own. Kids he had the opportunity to see grow up and participate in their lives.

He eased the car onto the entry road and headed toward the hub. This wasn’t the first time Lockman followed a car down here. Plenty of other graves were accessible down the same path. He had to check them all.

He drove slowly, giving the visitor plenty of time to find their destination and pull to the side of the road. Lockman would coast by and see where the man headed. If it looked like he might be going toward the target grave, Lockman would turn around in the cul-de-sac and come back. If he found the man standing at the sister’s grave, or could ID Tanner…

Well, that part would come when it came.

Lockman made the appropriate left turn and had to hit his brakes almost immediately. The green compact had stopped in the center of the road.

Heat waves rippled from the exhaust pipe. The driver sat still behind the wheel, but Lockman had the feeling he was being watched in the driver’s rearview mirror.

Had he been made?

The cars break lights dimmed and the car started backing up right for Lockman’s.

Lockman put his hand on the gearshift, but stopped from throwing it into reverse. Instead he laid on the horn in case this person really did not see him and was merely backing up absentmindedly.

The compact turned, curling back so that it came perpendicular to the road, driver’s side closest to Lockman. Peering through the window at him—Tanner.

Lockman instinctively grabbed for the Desert Eagle he had tucked under the driver’s seat. By the time his hand touched the gun he heard the shots snap through his windshield and whip over his head. He grabbed the Desert Eagle, racked the slide, and thumbed off the safety, all while remaining crouched behind the dashboard at an awkward angle. A muscle kinked in his back. Despite all the working out and preparation, age had tweaked him both physically and mentally. He should have figured Tanner would spot a surveillance car right off the bat. Sloppy work on Lockman’s part. Now he would have to improvise.

First move, take away Tanner’s offensive advantage. Lockman let his foot off the break and jammed on the gas. The engine revved and the car shot forward. Slammed into Tanner’s vehicle.

The shots stopped.

Lockman chanced a look over the dash and saw Tanner climbing across his front seat and out the passenger side door. Lockman aimed through the windshield and fired a trio of shots over Tanner’s head, forcing him down.

It bought Lockman enough time to throw his car in reverse and sail back into the hub. Then he jammed the gearshift to drive and stomped on the gas again. With the added distance, this time when Lockman’s rental T-boned Tanner’s compact, he managed to move the opposing vehicle a couple feet sideway.

Tanner scampered out from behind his car and ran for the nearest tree line, firing a few blind shots from a pistol on his way.

Lockman threw his door open and rushed after him.

Tanner ducked behind a tree then threw his gun arm around and snapped off two more blind shots.

Lockman hit the ground and rolled, knowing a blind shot from someone like Tanner was better than the average gun owner’s aimed shot.