Madness Rules - 04 (19 page)

Tanner reached out and shook the man’s hand.

“I appreciate you helping my daughter.”

The doctor started to say something and then stopped himself.

“What?”

He looked left and right, as if making sure no one was within earshot.

“You needn’t pretend. I know who she is.”

Tanner met the man’s stare.

“And?”

The doctor shrugged. “And nothing. I’m glad she’s safe. You obviously love her, and that’s what any orphan needs.”

“Orphan? What are you talking about?”

The doctor stepped closer and lowered his voice.

“President Glass died more than a week ago. You didn’t know?”

Tanner shook his head, his mind racing with what the news meant.

“The way I heard it, she was murdered by one of her closest advisors. A terrible loss if you ask me.”

“Did you tell Samantha?”

“No, of course not. But she’ll find out eventually. Once she’s recovered a little, you should break the news.” The doctor patted him on the arm and turned to leave. “I guess you really are her father now.”

After the doctor was gone, Tanner went in to check on Samantha. She was awake but still weak and feverish.

“Am I going to make it?” she asked with a small smile.

“The old coot said you should be feeling better by morning. Gave me some horse pills in case you’re not.” He held up the bottle and rattled the pills around.

“Why would he give you horse pills? Oh no, not another veterinarian.”

He chuckled. “It’s just an expression. It means the pills are big.”

“Because horses have big mouths?”

“I guess so.”

She rubbed her fingers across her mouth.

“Do I have a big mouth?”

Tanner bit his lip. “Not at all.”

“Did you have any trouble finding the doctor?”

“Nah, no problems at all.”

She looked at the bruise on his face and the blood covering his shirt.

“Just another day, right?”

He smiled. “Just another day.”

“It’s a good thing you’re unkillable.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

She reached over and laid her hand on his.

“Seriously, I’m glad you’re okay.”

“I almost forgot,” he said, reaching behind his back. “I got something for you.” He brought forward a small bottle of chocolate drink.

Samantha struggled to sit up, disbelief in her eyes.

“Happy Birthday, Sam,” he said, handing her the bottle of Yoo-hoo.

She felt of the glass bottle, shaking her head in amazement.

“How?”

“Ah, it wasn’t so hard. I traded with a nice fella who happened to have a bottle.”

She unscrewed the top and took a drink.

“Oh, that’s so good. You try.” She held it out to him, and he took a small sip. It tasted like chocolate milk with a cup of sugar stirred in for good measure.

“Good, right?”

“The best,” he said, wondering how quickly he could get to the bottle of lager he had stowed in his pack.

She took another sip and closed her eyes to savor the flavor.

“I think this is the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten in my whole life.”

“It’s a bottle of Yoo-hoo.”

“No,” she said. “This is perhaps the last bottle of Yoo-hoo in the entire world. And you went and got it for me.”

“It was the least I could do. You only turn nine once.”

She started to correct him and then smiled when she realized he was joking.

“Wow,” she said, taking another sip, “this is so good.”

CHAPTER

14

Early the next morning, Mason and Connie followed Highway 23 northeast, skirting the Kentucky and West Virginia state lines. The four-lane road, dubbed the Country Music Highway, was famous for passing through the hometowns of renowned country music stars, including Billy Ray Cyrus, Ricky Skaggs, Dwight Yoakam, and Loretta Lynn. Skirting smaller towns like Paintsville and Louisa proved easy enough, but as they got closer to Ashland, the roadways became more congested.

Huge oil storage tanks and industrial smokestacks towered off to their right as part of the six-hundred-and-fifty-acre Catlettsburg Refinery. Mason couldn’t help but wonder what was going to happen to the world as gasoline became less and less usable, slowly degrading to where it would eventually turn into a gummy varnish. As bad as things were now, they were only going to get worse.

The shoulder tapered as it butted up against steep rocky slopes, eventually becoming too narrow for the truck to pass. He steered through a gap in the stalled traffic, crossing over onto the grassy median. The steep incline caused Connie to lean against him, and Bowie slid across the bed of the truck.

“We’re not going to make it much further,” he said.

“Just a few hundred more feet,” she said, pointing ahead. “Exit on Lake Bonita Road. It’s less crowded and will bring us over to Rockdale. From there we can come in from the west on Highway 60.”

“Is that how you came down to Boone?”

“That’s right. My place in Ironville isn’t far from where we’re going.”

“And where exactly is that?”

“To the Paramount Arts Center in downtown Ashland, right next to the Ohio River.”

Mason remembered hearing of the arts center, a place that drew top musical talent from around the country. It had been built to be a high-end theater, but its completion had coincided with the arrival of the Great Depression, leaving its financial future in doubt. Originally designed to show silent films, the theater finally found success by adapting to play “talkies.” For the past several decades, great efforts had been made to restore and remodel the historic landmark into a versatile performing arts center, able to seat fourteen hundred people.

“What are they doing at the Paramount?”

“I think the Wards like to pretend they’re living in the past. The Paramount is their playground. When you meet them, you’ll understand.”

“What does that mean?”

“Last time I saw them, they were all decked out like gunslingers from old westerns—big black hats, long trench coats. It was all quite ridiculous.”

“People have accused me of playing cowboy a time or two.”

“Maybe so, but the difference is that these men wouldn’t know a real lawman if he bit them on the balls. You would.” She threw him a sidelong glance. “At least, I think you would.”

“I would, believe me,” he said, grinning.

She laughed. After a few seconds, the smile faded away.

“Marshal, despite their over-the-top-dress and distorted sense of justice, please don’t underestimate these men.”

“I won’t.”

“Joe, the father, is a bastard through and through. From what I’ve heard, he used to be the sheriff of Portsmouth ten years back. Rumor has it that he was forcibly retired for beating up some kid who mouthed off to him.”

“A man with a temper.”

“That’s an understatement. And from what I could tell, he raised his kids with that same tough love. They’ve been taught that the best way to resolve a disagreement is to get a bat and beat the other person until they stop causing trouble.”

“That can be effective.”

“Maybe so, but I think they’ve come to enjoy it.”

He nodded. “What do you know about his boys?”

“Three sons, Karl, Max, and Frank. Karl’s big and mean, and looks and acts like every other bully. Max is small and wiry, not intelligent exactly but sort of street smart. The youngest, Frank, seems weak, like he’s still trying to come into his own. Unfortunately, that means he’s willing to do whatever he’s told, no matter who it hurts.” Her voice faded away.

“He’s the one who branded you?”

“They were all involved, but yes, Frank’s the one who actually held the hot poker to my skin. I think he saw it as some kind of initiation into manhood.”

“Of the group, who do you think is likely to be the most trouble?”

“Hard to say. Being family, I think they’ll either all walk away, or they’ll all fight. There won’t be any middle ground.”

“It’s just as well that way.”

Mason turned onto Lake Bonita Road, and found that Connie had been right. It was much more passable with a single lane weaving its way through the stalled traffic. They drove for another ten miles through rolling hills, thick forests, and the occasional farmhouse. A few people were outside their homes, working small plots of land. No one waved.

As they reached Rockdale and turned east on Highway 60, Mason made a decision—one that he knew Connie wouldn’t like.

“How much further?” he asked.

“Not far. Maybe five miles. We’ll head straight down Highway 60 and then turn right on Winchester Avenue.”

“There won’t be a
we
in this, Connie.”

She turned to him, a confused look on her face.

“What are you talking about?”

“You asked me to go and deal with these men, and I’ll do that. But I need to do it alone.”

“No,” she said in a firm voice. “I’m coming with you.”

He shook his head.

“You know I need this,” she pleaded. “Please.”

“I’m sorry.”

She grabbed his arm. “Why?”

“Because if you come along, I’ll have to constantly look over my shoulder to make sure you’re okay, just like at the carnival. And my worrying might get us all killed.”

“But if I don’t come, how will I even know it’s over?”

“I’m not abandoning you, Connie,” he said, giving her a reassuring smile. “I’ll come back to find you. Trust me.”

“And if you don’t return?”

“Then you can safely assume I’m dead.”

She sat quietly for more than a minute.

“I don’t suppose this is open for negotiation.”

He turned to face her.

“You should know by now that I’m not a man who negotiates about much of anything.”

She shook her head, not at all happy with his decision.

“Fine,” she sniffed. “You can drop me at my home in Ironville.”

Mason rested his hand on Bowie. The dog whined and laid his head on the seat.

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. But with what we’re walking into, we’re better off without her.”

Connie had parted with the slam of the door, obviously upset about not being able to see the Wards get their just rewards. Mason understood her desire for revenge, but what he had said was true. She would only endanger them by coming along. He would see that justice was served, and that would have to be enough. Perhaps one day she might even thank him for sparing her from witnessing the violence.

Then again, maybe not. Mason suspected that Connie’s revenge was not driven by pain, but rather by shame. The Wards had dehumanized her in a way that wasn’t so different from her mother’s rape. And like her mother, Connie could not tolerate such shame without setting things right.

Mason turned his attention back to the road. Before the pandemic, the city of Ashland had about twenty thousand residents. Based on the few people he had seen out gathering food and supplies, he guessed that number was now closer to two thousand. Still, it was enough to survive if they organized, especially if they combined resources with folks in the adjacent communities of Huntington and across the river in Ironton. If they didn’t, most would probably be dead by the same time next year.

Following Connie’s instructions, he proceeded straight down Highway 60, which turned into 13th Street closer into town. The route took him past a cemetery with a large columbarium filled with cinerary urns. Someone had used red spray paint to write “Superpox-99 Was No Accident” across the face of the white brick walls. Beyond the cemetery was a gas station, vacant except for two armed men who stood guard over the pumps. Neither made any kind of threatening move as he passed.

On the opposite side of the street was a small market, advertising homemade butter, cheese, and pies. Beyond that was a church with several white crosses made from PVC pipe. The words “God Didn’t Do This” were spray painted across the front of the church. For the next few miles, there was more of the same: gas stations, takeout restaurants, churches, and the occasional house, many of them vandalized with similar graffiti.

As they passed an animal hospital, Bowie leaned his head out the passenger window and began barking. A group of cats had collected under the awning and were watching him warily. Perhaps they had been freed weeks earlier and considered it their home, or maybe it offered shelter from the occasional storm. Either way, Bowie was far more eager to introduce himself than they were to have his company.

“Not today,” Mason said, speeding up a little to further dissuade him.

As they got closer to the river, the road became crowded again with abandoned cars and trucks. Mason found himself driving over sidewalks and across lawns. After a few more blocks, he saw the distinctive two-story, rust-colored metal framing that supported the arts center’s stage house. Beside it sat a large white stone pillar with the word “Paramount” written down the side.