KnockOut (21 page)

BRICKER’S BOWL, GEORGIA

Late Wednesday afternoon

“We need to go back to Titusville, Dillon. We can’t leave Ethan on his own, even if he asked us to.”

“We’ll be on a flight this evening, Sherlock,” Savich said, and turned the Camry onto the main road, heading east from Bricker’s Bowl. “Right now I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“Anything to make this headache go away.”

“How about MAX found the address of the Children of Twilight?”

“He’s been working on that for days. You’re not kidding me?”

He shook his head. “Nope, got it.”

“Oh, yeah, that’ll do it.” She snapped her fingers. “Headache’s gone in four-point-five seconds. How did MAX find out where they’re located?”

“Whistler’s mother.”

She punched him in the arm.

He grinned. “MAX couldn’t find any property in Caldicot Whistler’s name, so we dug into Caldicot Whistler’s antecedents, his father, then his mother. Father’s dead, so is the mother, but I had him do a property search within a hundred-mile radius of Bricker’s Bowl, flag anything that might be suspect. He finally found a good-sized property hidden within two holding companies, the first under the proprietary name of the second. That second company’s name was listed as C. W. Huntingdon, Limited. The initials C.W.—as in Caldicot Whistler—triggered MAX’s algorithm, and he went for it. Underneath all the layers, MAX discovered the property actually belonged to Mrs. Agatha Whistler as sole trustee. She inherited it from her husband when he died some fifteen years ago. Although the trust isn’t in the public record, it must have been passed to Caldicot when she died only last year at the age of eighty-five years. Caldicot is her only surviving child, now age fifty-two. Her other child was much older and is also dead.

“So Caldicot made a good stab at hiding the property, but MAX dug him out anyway.”

The pride in his voice made Sherlock smile. “What sort of property is it?”

“An old flue-cured tobacco farm.”

“What on earth is that?”

“Flue-curing is still used commonly on tobacco farms in Georgia, supposedly produces the best tobacco. Evidently they string the tobacco leaves onto sticks that they then hang from tier-poles in the curing barns. Then brick furnaces heat flues that ‘cook’ the green tobacco leaves.

“According to the deed, the farm was active until the nineteen thirties. There are two curing barns still standing after more than a hundred years, and a huge stone mansion, built in the early part of the twentieth century that now probably houses the cult. I can’t imagine what other use Whistler would have for it. It’s located about two miles outside of a small town called Peas Ridge, ten miles from Haverhill, where Caldicot Whistler supposedly sells cars.”

“May I ask when you worked with MAX on this?”

He shrugged. “I woke up early this morning, couldn’t go back to sleep. You looked so happy in whatever dream you were having, I didn’t have the heart to wake you. I already called Ethan about it.”

Sherlock nodded. “He needs all the info he can get. Good job.” She frowned at him. “You could at least act like you’re a bit tired.”

“Hot tea’s my secret, you know that.”

“All right, macho man, the Children of Twilight. I haven’t told you where I think that name comes from.”

“Yeah, you were going to tell me about that earlier.”

“I found a couple hundred references to the name, but the one that caught my eye was a Children of Twilight group back in the fifteenth century in Spain, which was at the height of the Inquisition. They were called
Los Niños en el Atardecer
in Spanish. They’d been around for maybe a hundred years before that, living in isolation, causing no trouble.

“Torquemada himself went after the cult. You’re going to like this—the Children of Twilight were all supposedly endowed with psychic powers.”

Savich said slowly, “They wouldn’t have called it that back then. How were they described?”

“Torquemada called them
Adoradores del Diablo
—devil worshippers—who communicated not only with each other but with the devil himself to further the devil’s evil schemes.”

“Not a good ending for them, I’ll bet.”

“No, not a good ending. Those Torquemada caught were burned at the stake.
Auto-da-fé
—an ‘act of faith.’ Isn’t that lovely? Some escaped, but the group was never heard from again.”

Savich said, “So if this present-day cult has taken up their name, that leads to an interesting conclusion, doesn’t it?”

“The same direction Whistler’s blog took us—a cult that glorifies psychics—and might risk a great deal for a child like Autumn. Of course, it could all be coincidence.”

“Or maybe not.”

A bullet whistled past Sherlock’s head and spiderwebbed the windshield.

SAVICH SHOUTED, “HOLD ON.”

He got control of the car again, glanced into the rearview mirror at a small black Ford Focus not twenty feet back and saw the black barrel of a gun and the hand holding it coming out the passenger-side window. So there were two of them. He wasn’t in his Porsche, he was in a Camry with regular gas in its tank, but it was a game little car. He sawed the Camry back and forth across the lanes, grateful there were no other cars in sight.

Sherlock slithered low across the seat as she pulled her SIG from her belt clip, then twisted around to look at the car behind them. Savich said, “Gun out the passenger-side window. They haven’t fired again because they can’t get a fix on us.”

“Got it.” She rolled down the window, leaned out, and yelled, “Now, Dillon!” She fired off three shots as he steadied the car, then he jerked the Camry hard to the left, through the other lane, nearly into the ditch, before he jerked it back. He heard the ping of bullets hitting the pavement and the car.

“I missed him. Hold steady again, Dillon!”

She emptied her clip this time. He wasn’t surprised when the Ford began careening all over the road, out of control and gaining speed on the decline behind them. The driver had to be hit. He saw the shooter trying to shove the driver aside so he could get control. It was going to be close, because lumbering toward them, not fifty feet ahead, was an old silver pickup truck loaded with hay bales higher than its cab. Savich laid his palm on the horn, blasting loud into the hot late afternoon. Thank God the driver of the ancient pickup wasn’t a slouch. He careened into the right lane and pulled over onto the shoulder, chewing tobacco furiously at them while they whizzed past.

A caravan of trucks and a Goldwing with a man and woman on board came around a wide bend in the road, going at a good clip. He looked at the Ford behind him, thick black smoke billowing from beneath the hood, and watched the shooter jerk the Ford hard to the right and peel off onto an unpaved country road he hadn’t even noticed. He knew then they had to be locals, but he’d known that already.

Savich slowed and Sherlock fired another full clip after them, but they disappeared into a cloud of whirling dirt from the road. He had to wait for the spurt of traffic to pass, then he turned the Camry in a tight U and came in behind an old SUV, the last of the traffic he’d just let pass. All the vehicles had slowed and were rubbernecking, trying to see that smoking car. He laid his palm on the horn and got the finger in return. Finally he reached the country road and turned a sharp left onto the dirt road.

Sherlock was still hanging out the window, her hair whipping around her head. She jerked back inside. “There, Dillon, behind that stand of trees on your left. They didn’t get far.”

He saw the black smoke before he saw the car. He braked fast and hard, closer than he wanted. Sherlock was out the door while the tires were still trying to grip the dirt.

“Careful,” he shouted, pulled his SIG, and went out the driver’s side, bent low, his eyes on the car.

The Ford exploded. No time, no time. The burst of heat singed their hair, seared the air itself, and the blast concussion hurled them backward. Savich grabbed her as they went down, protecting her as best he could, and rolled with her beneath the back of the Camry as burning pieces of the Ford rained down around them.

Sherlock, coughing and trying to suck in air at the same time, finally managed to whisper against his shoulder, “I really didn’t mean to, but guess I got the gas tank. You think those guys are still inside?”

“Yeah, probably,” he said. “Don’t move.” There were still hot flames and foul-smelling smoke gushing upward like black geysers, pieces of the car still hissing and exploding off the frame in the heat, setting nearby bushes on fire. Then there was silence, absolute silence.

Savich slowly eased from beneath the car, came up on his elbow over her, and studied her black face and the cut along her hairline, snaking a line of blood down her cheek. He touched the cut, saw it was superficial, and drew a deep breath.

“I’m okay, Dillon. How about you?” She was grinning at him, teeth whiter than his shirt had been before the explosion.

“I’m fine, but you’re hurt.”

“Just a little cut. My hair will soak it up. You’re okay?”

He consulted his body parts, nodded. “Do I look as bad as you do?”

“Yeah, but you know, kind of black-ops sexy.”

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the cut. It was indeed as shallow as he’d thought, nothing much really, thank you, God. He realized he’d been shaking. It had been too close, simply too close, and here she was cracking a joke. He grabbed her and pulled her hard against him on the ground, pressing her into his shoulder.

“I’m all right. Come on, Dillon, I don’t want to, but we have to check to see if those guys are still in the car.”

He wanted to hold her for at least another hour and breathe fresh air, tons of it, but fresh air would be in short supply here for a while, and the shooters could have gotten out of the car. He gave her a final squeeze, then they slowly got to their feet.

“Careful,” he said. SIGs drawn, they made their way to the smoking ruin of the car.

Sherlock stepped around a burning running shoe with a foot in it and swallowed bile, swallowed again when she felt the heave coming. There was a smell of burned flesh mixed with the foul smell of burning plastic and gasoline. When she got ahold of herself, she said, “I guess they didn’t get out.”

Through the smoke they saw blackened remains huddled together in what was left of the front seat. Two men.

Savich pulled out his cell and called the Atlanta field office. “Beau? Savich. Sherlock and I have got ourselves a pretty gnarly situation here.”

And he told the SAC, Beau Chumley, what had happened.

He said to Sherlock, “Guess we’re not going to get to have dinner with the Children of Twilight.”

They waited in their car, cleaned up as best as they could with water from Sherlock’s fizzy water bottle. Savich tried Ethan several times but no go—no cell service that far out in the wilderness. He knew this, yet he tried once again. Then he looked at his wife and said slowly, “I’m dumb as dirt. I forgot about Autumn. Let’s see if I can reach her.” He closed his eyes and pictured her face in his mind.

Dillon? It’s you, really you?

Hi, Autumn. What’s happening?

We’re resting for a minute, Dillon, so I can talk. What happened to your face?

Sherlock and I had a spot of trouble here in Georgia, but we’re okay. I need you to speak to Ethan for me, okay?

That beautiful child with her hair in a ratty ponytail, and her mother’s freckles marching across her small nose, giggled.

I’m going to be a TV.

Yep, with picture and sound. Okay, ask Ethan to tell me where you are.

Savich watched Autumn turn away from him. Oddly, he couldn’t see anything else, only her profile, nor could he hear her speaking to Ethan. So did that mean Autumn couldn’t see Sherlock? Autumn turned back to him.
Ethan says he’s taking me and mom to Locksley Manor. He said it’s a cave and he knows it real well. We’re going to hide there.

Savich knew exactly what that meant. Ethan would leave Joanna and Autumn in the cave and go after Blessed and Grace. Since that was what Savich would do as well, he couldn’t say much of anything except, of course, warning him about not looking at Blessed, but Ethan knew that. Ethan also knew what he was doing. He knew the wilderness, and he knew what was at stake. He settled for asking Autumn to tell Ethan to be careful.

She nodded, turned away again.

A minute later she was back.
Mama is staring at me because she knows we’re talking to each other and she doesn’t want to believe it, but, well, she has to. Ethan told me to tell you he’s got a plan, but he won’t tell me what it is. I’m scared, Dillon. What’s going to happen?

What to say? Then he knew.

Sherlock and I are going to try to get Blessed and Grace to leave the wilderness and come back fast to Georgia. Tell Ethan we’re going to see Mrs. Backman again. Tell him we’re going to cut off the head of the snake. You be brave, Autumn. I’m here when you need to speak to me.

She smiled at him, a smile filled with such hope and confidence—in him.

When SAC Beau Chumley arrived by helicopter an hour later at twilight, the local sheriff and his three deputies were already there, along with the white van of the county forensic team. The first words out of Savich’s mouth were “Can you take over for us here, Beau? We’ve got to get back to Bricker’s Bowl to arrest Mrs. Shepherd Backman.” He looked toward the forensic team, who looked both grim and resigned, and was thankful he didn’t have their job.

TITUS HITCH WILDERNESS

TITUSVILLE, VIRGINIA

Ethan cleared away enough brush so he could slip through onto a narrow stone ledge beneath an overhang and into the cave he’d named Locksley Manor when he’d been seven years old, reading Robin Hood and exploring with his grandfather. The cave was well hidden since he’d planted bushes all across the front of it, hoping to prevent hikers from finding it, which had worked, and keeping animals out, which hadn’t. A bear hibernated in this cave most every winter, but it was August now and quite empty, thank God. It smelled like bear, not a bad smell, just thick, kind of oily. The chamber was small, unremarkable, really, giving no hint to the several magnificent chambers to be found deeper in the mountain, each of them with ceilings so high you couldn’t see the top.

He made his way out through the bushes and brought in Autumn and Joanna. Then he pulled the bushes back into place, covering all signs of a cave entrance.

He pulled off his backpack as he watched Joanna and Autumn’s faces in the pale light of their sanctuary. He said, “It looks pretty humdrum out here, but as it burrows farther back into the mountain, it becomes quite spectacular. I’ll bring you guys back here to explore it. Let me show you the goodies I brought.” He pointed to his bulging backpack that he’d slung onto the cave floor. “You never know when a tourist is going to get into trouble, and so all of us officers around here are prepared. My backpack is basically a survival kit—water, a half-dozen PowerBars, first-aid stuff, three of those high-tech sleeping bags that weigh a few ounces and keep you warm at twenty below. Not our problem, but it will get cold tonight, cold enough to appreciate them.” He reached in the pack and pulled out a plastic bag. “And the most important, coffee and a couple of mugs.”

“But we don’t have—”

“Oh ye of little faith,” Ethan said as he pulled out another small package and opened it. He took what looked like a metal disk, unfolded it into a cylinder, shoved another piece of metal into a bracket at the side, and within a few seconds he was waving a small pot in front of him.

Without thought, Joanna threw her arms around him. “That is miraculous, simply—”

She broke off, quickly stepped back, only to hear Autumn say, “I don’t drink coffee but I think you’re miraculous too, Ethan.”

They all laughed. It felt good to smile, to feel a little wash of relief pour through you. It put the fear aside, if only for a moment or two.

Ethan looked at the stack of logs he’d left here last year. Above the logs were twenty-five deep scratch marks in the stone, marking each year since he’d found the cave.

He decided against lighting a fire, not wanting Blessed and Grace to smell the smoke. He made do with a small Coleman burner just large enough to hold his pot.

Joanna boiled water, Autumn spread out the high-tech space sleeping bags, and Ethan checked all their weapons.

Ethan looked at the three sleeping bags in a neat line and said, “Here, Autumn, I’ve got your dinner. Eat slowly, you only get two bars, okay?”

It was quiet, and soon it was nearly dark in the deep wilderness. The trees were so thick that night fell quickly. Autumn fell asleep inside one of the sleeping bags, her hands cupped beneath her cheek.

When Ethan seated himself beside Joanna, his legs stretched out in front of him alongside hers, his back against the cave wall, he said, “Joanna, have you thought about how Blessed and Grace found you and Autumn here in Titusville?”

She shook her head, then sighed, leaned back against the cave wall. “Well, of course I have. I really don’t know, Ethan, but I know without a doubt they’ll find us. You know it too.”

He nodded. “When Autumn was talking to Savich earlier, Savich told her to tell me he was going to see Mrs. Backman again, to cut off the snake’s head.”

“A good name for the old witch.”

“Is he thinking it’s Mrs. Backman who’s the tracker, not Blessed and Grace, that she somehow directs them? Do you think that’s possible?”

“I’ve thought about it, but when it comes down to that it’s so outside anything that makes sense to me, to any of us, it makes my head ache.”

“What we already know about them is remarkable enough. Truth be told, I don’t know why they haven’t tried to take over the world. What Blessed alone can do—why isn’t he president? Or dictator of a small country?”

“I’m thinking he’s got to have limits. Maybe he can stymie only a couple of people at a time. Maybe the hypnosis fades after a day, two days, whatever. Maybe there are a whole lot of people he can’t stymie—both Dillon and Autumn can resist him, after all.”

Ethan said, “Limits—that sounds reasonable, if anything can be considered reasonable about what Blessed does.”

“And Grace. We don’t even know what he can do. It’s interesting the Backmans never moved out of Bricker’s Bowl to look for a larger canvas. Mr. Backman left but always came back, again and again. It’s like they’re somehow tied to Bricker’s Bowl, they’re afraid to leave, or can’t leave.”

Ethan poured them each another half-cup of coffee. “That’s the end of it. Do you like it?”

“It’s the best coffee I’ve had today.”

He chuckled and raised his cup to hers in a toast. He paused a moment, then said, “I meant to tell you, Joanna, I really like your freckles.”

Her hands immediately went to her cheeks. “Freckles, the bane of my existence. You said you like them?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“They breed in the sun.”

Her dark brown hair was pulled to the back of her head and held in a big clip. Hanks of thick hair fell around her face. He would have told her he liked her mouth too, and how her smile filled the very air with pleasure, but it really wasn’t the time. He prayed there would be a time. He couldn’t remember a more dangerous situation, and he knew he couldn’t fail. It wasn’t an option. Ethan watched her pull out the clip, smooth her fingers through her tangled hair, gather it all up again, and hook the clip back in. He said, “Autumn is the picture of you.”

“What? Oh, no, she’s beautiful. I’ve always thought she looked more like my mother.”

“Nope, she’s a copy of you. There’s nothing of her father in her?”

“She’ll look at you sometimes with her head tilted to one side, like she knows what you’re going to say and is waiting for you to get on with it. That’s her father. And when she’s mad, her cheeks turn redder than a sunset. That’s her father too.”

“Ready to tell me about Martin Backman?”

She swallowed, shook her head.

Ethan waited, saying nothing more, and sipped his coffee, so thick with grounds now it was probably growing hair on his tongue.

“He was a mean drunk, that’s what he told me when we dated, and that was why he didn’t drink. He said something snapped inside him when he drank, and he lost it. He hadn’t had a drink in seven years. I admired him because he’d recognized the problem and dealt with it.

“I was visiting some friends in Boston when I met him. I fell in love, married him right after I graduated from Bryn Mawr, and moved to the big bad city of Boston. Became a Patriots fan, and the Red Sox—you can’t help but love them. Then Autumn came into our lives.”

“What did your husband do?”

“Martin was in advertising.”

“TV commercials?”

“Yes—television, primarily. People, humor, screwy situations, mostly. He was very good at it, very intuitive. He had a knack for knowing what would and what wouldn’t appeal to people, and he was usually right. Not long after we married, he was made the head of the agency branch in Boston—he was only twenty-eight.”

“Do you think his gift somehow played into this? Gave him an edge?”

“You’re probably right. Sometimes it was scary how right-on he was. Autumn was four years old when his company wanted to bring him to New York—a big promotion, more money than you can imagine.”

“What happened?”

“He went out with people from the firm in New York to celebrate and, without thinking, he drank a toast. He didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, I guess. He hit a man in a brawl with a chair, and the man died. He plea-bargained down to manslaughter and went off to jail to serve a minimum of nine years.” She shrugged, staring down into her empty cup. “He was murdered in prison, stabbed by an inmate in the shower who turned out to be related to the man Martin killed in that bar.

“You want to know what was strange, Ethan? Autumn knew her father was dead before I told her. Not dead, necessarily, but that he wasn’t there anymore. And she knew he would never be there again. She told me they spoke every single day, only I refused to accept it as being real even though I knew in my gut that it was, even then. I couldn’t figure out why Martin had never told me about this gift of his, never told me about his family, refused to even speak of them. Now, of course, I understand.

“He didn’t want me to know about any of it, even this so-called gift that terrifies.”

Ethan took her fisted hand, smoothed out her fingers. “Autumn isn’t her father. She’s herself, and what she can do is a miracle.”

She gave a hard laugh. “Yes, a real miracle.”

He pulled her against him and pressed her against his chest. “Thank you for telling me. I’m very sorry. How long ago did he go to prison?”

“Nearly three years ago, up in Ossining. He refused to let either Autumn or me come to see him. He wrote to me every single week, although, of course, he must already have known everything that was going on, since he spoke to Autumn every day.

“By the time he died, I couldn’t even remember his smile, and I felt guilty because maybe I didn’t want to remember.” She sighed. “It was all so pointless.”

He smoothed his thumb over her eyebrow, traced his fingertips over the line of freckles. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, you look familiar to me.”

She closed her eyes. “I did a TV commercial for a new kind of potato chip. It was a way to make some extra money.”

“Was that you in the wheat field, chewing on this square, lacy chip?”

She grinned. “The director wanted the light just right so it would show up my freckles; he said they made me look like the girl next door. Do you know, those chips are quite good.”

“I remember I bought a bag because of you.”

He shouldn’t have said that, he should get down to business, but not just yet. He leaned down, kissed her mouth. She tasted of oat and apricot PowerBar. “I’m very sorry for all that’s happened to you, Joanna, both you and Autumn, but we’ll get through this. I’m heading out now to find a good spot to watch for Blessed. It’s the perfect night for it, hardly any moon but enough light for me to see. You watch over Autumn, all right?” He kissed her again and rose.

Joanna slowly got to her feet and faced him. He supposed he expected her to blast his plans but all she said, her voice quiet and calm, was “Yes, it’s time. I’m going with you. I don’t want to leave Autumn, but she’ll be safe enough here. I’m hoping she’ll stay asleep. She’s a really good sleeper.” She pulled her gun out of the back of her jeans.

“Mama? What’s going on? Is Blessed here?”