Mystery: Satan's Road - Suspense Thriller Mystery (Mystery, Suspense, Thriller, Suspense Crime Thriller) (14 page)

Roberts’s face came into view, his eyes open, his cheek pressed into the rough surface of the highway. I had zero remorse.
Fuck him
I thought. Crooked cops made me want to lose my lunch.

For a few seconds, I could actual hear crickets buzzing from the ravine below. Clay’s shrunken body was then suddenly lit with powerful headlights. I felt the whole interior of the Crown Vic fill with light again and heard the scream of air brakes.

The truck I couldn’t see, only feel and hear, roared toward me. Then I heard the shudder of wheels hopping on pavement and the squeal of air brakes and could feel through the frame of the car, the truck beginning to lift off the road. The headlights raked across the car and then were yanked off into the shadows. The driver had evidently lost control, and the cab was turning and rolling.

Seconds before impact, everything went dark again as the trucks trailer blotted out the moon.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Kam sat upright with his fingers digging into the leather arm rests. He was a nervous flyer. Maybe he thought holding tighter would reduce his chances of flying off into the clouds if the fuselage snapped in half, something he dreamt about once and couldn’t get out of his head.
If Tamara were here, she would be holding his hand right now. Or giving him a painful kick in the ankle to smarten him up. He really needed that kick.

He noticed for the first time the total absence of airsickness bags.
Great
. He’d never come close to using one on a commercial flight, but the presence was still somehow reassuring. Why a small eight-passenger jet wouldn’t stock them made no sense at all, considering the flight maneuvers they were capable of – or had already carried out. An expression came back to him from his time in Vietnam.
This pilot loved the stick.
He wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if he did a barrel roll before the flight was over, the pilot yelling to the passengers “Want to do that again?” Except he was the only passenger.

The plane he was flying on was a Learjet 31A, about twenty years old, according to the pilot. Apparently totally upgraded and refitted last year. The last minute flight cost from Boston to Hanover County Airport in Richmond? Eight thousand dollars. That had maxed out Kam’s MasterCard. And no dinner or drinks included. He was so hungry he considered gnawing on the upholstery.

Kam had no real plan going forward, but since he didn’t have the resources of the FBI, he felt a gnawing urgency to get to Parkhurst as soon as possible. He had “borrowed” the Rexall’s Lexus SUV to get to Cambridge, now parked in a long-term lot at Logan International in Boston. He had left a note back at their cabin – he just wasn’t sure if that excused auto theft. He had no cash, two credit cards, a broken watch and a driver’s license. The minute they asked him for his passport, he was finished. He figured his last remaining Visa card would get him to the gates of Parkhurst. He was trying to come up with a suitable story; some fabrication that would pry the gates open.

His first thought, several nautical miles ago, was to trek across the countryside and find a side road in. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that a thousand militia volunteers were not going to allow borders to go unguarded. Parkhurst would be at full alert Monday, anxious and keyed up for action. Kam didn’t want to be the first casualty of Gideon’ new world order.

That left the front gates. While waiting for his flight to prepare for takeoff, he had used an Internet kiosk at the airport. The Parkhurst website had several photos; smiling people husking corn, modern tractors tilling fields, children playing in an apple tree. No razor wire, no automatic weapons. But Kam had taught a History course on cults at Boston U and had visited a farm in Kansas once that was owned by the Paulians, an end-of-days sect. They were very suspicious of strangers and security was a daily focus. You didn’t just walk into an active militia compound.

From what he could tell, recruitment wasn’t voluntary. Jann Stone gave him the impression that everyone was handpicked by Gideon Lean. Kam wasn’t just going to knock on their front door and join up.

Despite the nervousness he felt for his present circumstances, something else was nagging at him too. An alarm bell was ringing somewhere back in his subconscious, rallying for his attention. He could still hear Hyde’s voice warning him away from Parkhurst and that was causing him some guilt, but that didn’t explain the anxiety. Maybe it was the eight thousand dollars he had just spent on a ninety-minute one-way trip.

Then it hit him. Damn. His credit card. He’d witnessed Chapertah get a phone call in his hotel room minutes before taking his life. They knew exactly where he was. Then Kaufmann, dying on the screen of his smart phone in the middle of their conversation. The SUV that came out of nowhere on his trip home, only minutes away from his home. And the soldier. Tommy. Showing up to rescue him at the last minute. How could they know exactly where people were? He’d heard that all cell phones made in the last few years had GPS chips in them. That explained most of the past few days. But he’d lost his phone in the lake. So he should be off their radar. That was until he used his credit card to book the charter. They had tried to kill him at least twice. So then, like a true amateur, he had disappeared by accident. Now he had given them everything they needed to track him down again. A credit card transaction. Captive on a small jet with a registered flight plan.

They’d be there when he landed at Hanover County airport, he was sure of it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The militiaman, in the new silver-grey Dodge 2500, watched through binoculars as the Lear jet taxied towards the Hanover County fueling station. Usually a charter would roll up close to the passenger lounge first, but obviously with one lone passenger, the pilot had decided to save a step. This meant that O’Brien would have a longer walk across the tarmac, but this way he would be in the soldier’s sites the whole way.

Following this enemy down the highway wouldn’t be as easy. There was relatively heavy traffic on Highway #1 on Monday mornings. With luck, he would find a relatively deserted length of road and erase the professor, and if necessary, the taxi driver as well. Then get back to the camp in time for the launch.

Once the small jet stopped, the air door swung out and the pilot climbed down the stairs. He spoke briefly to the fuel jockey. Then he headed for the hanger.

The soldier waited.
What was O’Brien’s problem? What was taking so long?
After several more minutes, he began to really worry. Failing this mission was not an option. He zoomed in again on the fueling jet, looking for activity behind the porthole windows. Then he saw some movement. Finally, a man dressed in casual pants and a golf shirt stepped into sight. But he was clearly too young to be the professor. This passenger looked to be in his early thirties.

The militiaman cursed and slammed his fist into the dash. He was looking for an elderly man with white hair – exactly the description of the pilot. O’Brien must have switched clothes with the pilot.

The soldier jammed the truck into gear and roared down the gravel road towards the entrance gate. But by the time he pulled up to the drop-off area, he knew he was too late. The foyer and waiting area were empty. The old guy had given him the slip.

The militiaman was already dreading the rest of the day - and what unique punishment Gideon would have in store for him when he got back to base.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Kam, despite twenty-fours without sleep and a painful kink in his neck from trying to doze on the plane, felt pretty good.

Moments before landing, Kam had come up with an idea. He needed about fifteen minutes out-of-sight from his trackers to pick up his rental car and get on the freeway. As they were taxiing in, he approached the pilot with his proposal – they trade clothes. The pilot was wearing a white shirt and dark blue slacks and was close to Kam’s height and build. But the airline’s pilot cap was what he was really after. Kam believed if he exited the jet wearing a pilot’s uniform and hat, that would distract anyone keeping an eye out for him for long enough to make a getaway.

The pilot laughed when he first heard the strange request, but Kam felt he knew how to convince him. Despite the prestige, small airline pilots were not paid big money. Kam told him about Tamara and his trackers, then offered him $1000. And the pilot, Conner, agreed. They spent a few minutes working out the details of how Conner would get his clothes back and they shook hands.

The big problem was Kam had no cash. There was an ATM in the airport, but Kam was afraid of even a short delay. So Kam tried a desperate lie. He adjusted the time on his wristwatch, so it appeared to be working, and showed the pilot.

“I’m at the end of my wits. I lost my daughter years ago. This was her gift to me. It’s one of my most valued possessions. I’ll let you hold it until I get back. As security.”

Then a strange thing happened. He started to tear up. The watch was never a gift from Sheila; in fact, he couldn’t remember anything that she had given him besides crayon drawings as a child. But that long-forgotten memory of her, standing there with a page full of colorful scribbles in her hand, was vivid enough to trigger a surprisingly powerful emotion. He almost felt like he was going to lose control for a moment.

Conner looked at him sympathetically, seeing the pain. “You keep it,” he said. “Might bring you luck. And here’s my card. Look me up when you find your wife. We’ll all have a beer together.”

And that was that. A complete stranger had thrown him a lifeline.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Parkhurst was not what Kam expected at all. He could only describe the community as a twenty-first-century fortress. The website had painted a picture of an idyllic life inside the gates. They just neglected to say that the gates and the walls were twelve feet tall.

Kam could see that the design for Parkhurst was based on traditional castle architecture – covered towers every fifty feet or so connected by defensive walls made from structural concrete. The towers had small roofed housings on top with windows. Kam could see lookouts and soldiers at every visible window. Though modern in design, there was something stark and medieval about the structure. It was pretty clear that getting out of Parkhurst would be as difficult as getting in.

Kam knew from the online brochure that the commune consisted of several neighborhoods populated by small compact houses. At the center of the community was a large farmhouse where Gideon lived and controlled his global operations. Inside Parkhurst’s gates, you could also find a football field, an indoor swimming pool, an auditorium, shooting ranges, schools – and even a modern gun factory.

The major gatehouse, facing the East, had a heavy steel gate that rose up on rails with guard housings on each side. Men in camouflage clothing were milling around the open gate. Long lines of trucks, carrying everything from vegetables to shoes, were lined up in a queue waiting to gain entry. Kam watched as a van, covered in images of fruit, was quickly waved through. He realized then that in order to feed and clothe five thousand people, Parkhurst would need outside suppliers – for food the community wasn’t able to grow.

Kam drove on past the gates, climbed a gentle curve on the highway, parking far off the shoulder, out of the view of the sentries.

He casually walked up to the end of the line of trucks. The last vehicle was a white step-up van. The graphic on the side said
Virginia Bakery, est. 1946.
Kam walked up to the driver’s door, which was open. A younger man in a white uniform was sitting at the controls, staring at the lineup. The smell of fresh bread was intoxicating.

“Hi,” said Kam, putting on his most-endearing smile.

The driver jumped in surprise. “Didn’t see you coming,” he said, not able to hide his embarrassment
.

“Your bread smells amazing.”

“Thanks. I think I’m immune to it now. If you want to buy some, we have a store in Ashland next to the Subway …”

“Sorry to interrupt you, but I need your help.”

“Huh?”

“My daughter has joined this group. At Parkhurst. And I need to talk to her.”

The bread driver took that in for a few seconds, and then realized what this stranger was asking. “I’m sorry Mister. I can’t help you. I can’t risk losing this customer and this job. They’ve been really good to me.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I think they’re good people too. But you must have family. You know how tough that is? I haven’t seen her for a year. And I’ll pay you for your trouble. No one will know.”

The driver moved his truck up another car length and Kam followed.

“Like I said, mister. I’d like to help and all but …”

“I don’t want to beg, but I came here to tell her I’m dying. I may never see her again. I’ve got about three months – if I’m lucky. And I can’t reach her inside.”

Kam knew it was manipulative, but he was working the heartstring tactic again. Somehow he didn’t care. He would do what it took to find Tamara. His eyes were already starting to well up. “You know this place. I can’t just walk in.”

“Listen, mister, I’d be glad to take your money, but that wouldn’t be right.” The driver stopped then – his mind working. “I’ll be in there for about two hours. They trust me, and they don’t search the truck every day. My idea is – you come in as an assistant and help me with the baked goods. It’s a big order today; something special is going on. When I’m ready to leave, if you’re not on the truck, I’m reporting you missing. That way I’m not lying to anyone. You’ll be on your own. One hour to help me. One hour to find your daughter. That won’t be hard. The women live in a compound right next to the kitchens.”

Kam could hardly believe what he heard. He shook the man’s hand and ran around to the passenger door before the driver changed his mind. Just as he closed the door, the truck moved up another length. They were about five vehicles now from the massive gate.

“
You’ve been delivering here long?” Kam asked.

“About two years or so.”

“What do they do there?”

“Farm. Grain and corn mostly. Some veggies. No cattle or anything. They’re all vegetarians. A lot of training and stuff. Pretty good militia, based on what I’ve seen.”

“What makes a good militia?” The van moved up another space.

“I’ve seen a lot of scruffy characters over the years wearing camouflage trousers with holes in their knees and beards down to their belly buttons. This isn’t that kind of group. They wear clean new uniforms. Shiny boots. Clean cut mostly. They look like they know what they’re doing.”

“You belong to their church?” asked Kam.

“No. My wife is Pentecostal,” the driver said.

“And you?”

Long pause. “Like I said, my wife is Pentecostal.”    

“Is there a head office of some kind? A place I can report to?”

The bread guy laughed. “You can go ask for Gideon at the farmhouse, if you’d like – but he’s just as likely to stare at you with those scary blue eyes of his and turn you into a pillar of salt. I would stay away from there.”

“Is that where he lives?”

“That’s where he runs things. All things.” The bread truck was almost to the guardhouse. “Now get in the back. Move some of the stacks around and keep yourself busy. If anyone asks, you just started with us. You’re my helper today. ”

They moved up to the gates and stopped. The driver just waved at one of the guards saying nothing. Kam didn’t see more than a flash of a soldier’s uniform. He was moving bread around in the back, trying to look like he had a job to do. They seemed to be sitting there forever.

Then Kam heard one of the guards say something to the driver – but he couldn’t make out the words. The driver shifted gears and put the truck into park and then stepped out onto the ground. Kam froze.
Had the driver lost his nerve at the last minute? Thought his job was worth more than helping a stranger?
He could run, but he had no idea how to even open the back door of the truck. Then, just as that idea flashed in his head, the back door of the bread van rolled up with a noisy clatter.

Staring at Kam was one of the compound’s soldiers – wearing tan slacks and holding a semi-automatic rifle at his side.

“And who are you?” he growled. There was an uneasy silence for a few seconds, then the driver answered for Kam.

“He’s my helper today. This order’s too big for one guy.” The soldier stepped up to the back of the van and looked inside. Kam was holding on to one of the cooler racks where the bread loaves were stacked, not sure what to do next.

“Hi. Name is Jim,” he offered, figuring that if Gideon was aware of him, they probably knew his real name.
Did they also know about his thick Boston accent?
The soldier squinted at him – then took in a deep breath.

“Damn that bread smells good,” he finally said and stepped back. “You wouldn’t have any samples today, would ya’?”

“I just happen to have a dozen cinnamon buns for you and your men,” answered the driver, looking relieved.