Slaves to Evil - 11 (4 page)

As they walked out, Brady approached him. “A lot of us are frustrated,” he said. “Too much talk. Too much concern about our precious public image.”

Matt nodded. “The Patriot League seems more like the Junior League.”

Brady laughed. “Come on. We’re heading over to the firehouse.”

Matt joined the self-described “true” Patriots for drinks and some surprisingly good barbecue. Most of the talk was harmless griping about work and modern society. This led to a round of reminiscences about the good old days of family, God, and country.

All of the Patriots deferred to Brady, especially on this last subject. Brady had served with the army in Iraq. More than that, he’d earned a commendation for meritorious service by shooting a sniper. This Patriot was the real deal. He was also a font of anti-Muslim rhetoric and insights into the mind of the Arab enemy, coming from one who’d been there. The others ate it up.

Especially Peter Donatti, who was the honorary kid brother of the group. His eyes glowed with hero worship as he listened to Brady. He admired the man’s crucifix tattoo so much that he got identical ink on the side of his neck. Peter had just graduated from high school but had no plans to go to college like his sister. He had a job with a construction crew and was content to stay in the town where he grew up. Which might have worked out for him if he hadn’t fallen in with a group of angry bigots who grew more hateful as the night went on.

“You know who bought the Bingham place?” Everett, a Patriot who could have been the poster boy for obesity in America, asked the group. “Some Arab, with his five little sand monkeys.”

Grumbles around the table. Owen, another Patriot, shook his head angrily. “Great. Another terrorist in the neighborhood.”

“The cops don’t even monitor these people,” Peter complained.

“The Saudis own the whole government now. They won’t do a goddamn thing,” said Brady. “It’s up to us.”

He glanced at Matt, as if judging how much to say in front of him. Matt nodded. “Damn right it is.”

But Brady held back. He drank some beer as Peter continued to vent. “It’s getting worse. A couple of Arabs just took over that used-car lot by the post office.”

“Yeah,” scoffed Matt, “but now they’ll sell used camels.” He winced inwardly at the joke, but the guys all laughed.

Over the next couple of weeks, Matt found a niche for himself as the funny one in the group. It wasn’t hard. All he had to do was spew stereotypes, with bonus points for creativity. He was surprised and appalled at how easily the toxic jokes came to him. The tightness that occasionally gripped his stomach as he swallowed his disgust became a permanent, acidic burn.

One night Matt and a few of the guys closed down the local bar. Suddenly Brady stopped in his tracks. “Look at that.”

He pointed at a couple at the far edge of the parking lot. A young Arab man was kissing a pretty girl good night. A pretty white girl. Four drunk, angry men descended on the couple, with Matt reluctantly tagging along.

Owen shoved the girl aside. “Disgusting bitch.”

She bolted. The young man crumpled under a fusillade of blows. Brady landed a solid kick to his ribs, breaking at least one. Peter smashed his nose. Matt threw a couple of weak punches, desperately thinking how to stop this without giving himself away. For a moment he locked eyes with his victim. The undiluted terror he saw there made Matt look away.

He recognized the rusty laugh even before he saw the Dark Man watching the beating with delight.

“Thumb outside the fist, slugger.” He held up his own bony hand to demonstrate.

“Fuck you,” snapped Matt.

“What’d you say?” asked Brady, turning on him.

Mercifully, inspiration struck. “Cops!” Matt yelled.

The Patriots didn’t need convincing. They scattered, leaving the man in a heap on the asphalt. Matt knelt down and rolled him onto his back.

The bloody glob of spit struck Matt on the forehead. Mr. Dark whooped. “Bull’s-eye!”

The young man staggered to his feet and ran off, sparing Matt a last, contemptuous glare. Matt just sat there, stunned.

Mr. Dark spat out the lollipop stick. It landed in a splatter of blood. “So,” he asked companionably, “how’s that saving-the-world thing working out for you?”

Matt settled down for the night in the corner of the room opposite Elena. He tried to get comfortable on the green industrial carpet, which was stained and sour smelling from a dozen different spills. Not to mention really cold. Still, he’d slept in places a lot worse than this. He made sure his ax and gun were safely in his duffel, cushioned them with some laundry, then lay back on the makeshift pillow. He pulled the blanket tightly around himself. The pain of his gunshot wound had receded from excruciating to severe. Which probably meant it wasn’t infected. Didn’t it?

He willed himself to concentrate on the memory of his wedding day and the vision of Janey walking down the aisle toward him. She had little white flowers in her hair. What were those called, baby’s breath? He started to relax.

He was idealizing his dead wife, Matt knew, turning her into a symbol of lost happiness. He didn’t want that. He wanted to remember Janey as a whole person, flaws and all. The first one that came to mind was the way she always waited until the last minute to get ready when they were going out, then raced around, frantically doing her makeup and hair. When Matt reminded her of this a little earlier before the next occasion, she assured him with perfect confidence, “I’ve got time.” And it happened again.

Remembering how annoyed this used to make him, Matt drifted off.

CHAPTER THREE

As the sun came up, Matt felt like shit. His shoulder was killing him and he’d barely slept. At least Elena was still tied securely to the door, leaning against it, asleep.

Matt downed more pills and ate an apple. When Elena woke, he took her on another bathroom excursion. Back in the room, he held out an apple and a granola bar.

“Your breakfast options,” he told her. She took the granola bar.

As she ate, Matt debated what to do with her. Could he really leave her alone here all day? A construction crew, new tenants, or even kids looking for a place to light up could come to the building and find her. Or someone could hear her if she called for help. He’d use the old T-shirt rope as a gag. It should keep her quiet, but she wouldn’t be able to eat or drink for however long he was gone. How long did it take for someone to get dehydrated? He had to admit that the Dark Man had been right about one thing. Keeping a captive was no simple task.

But Matt needed to find out what the Breckenridge police were up to, and he couldn’t do that here. So he tied Elena’s hands again and secured them to the door. He picked up the T-shirt rope and started to put it in her mouth.

“No way,” she protested, shaking her head violently from side to side. He was finally forced to grip her hair tightly, and no doubt painfully, to hold her head in place. He pulled down her jaw and got the rope in her mouth. Tying it behind her head without releasing her hair was its own challenge. By the time he succeeded, he was already exhausted and hadn’t even started the real work of the day.

“I really am sorry about this,” he told Elena. Her glare was poisonous.

Matt headed back into town. He forced his thoughts back to the cops. He needed more information, but how? Breaking into police headquarters and stealing secret files didn’t seem like an option. He’d have to tail the rotting policemen until he got some clue about what was happening in this idyllic little town. Fortunately he knew where Chief Lennox would be this morning.

A small crowd of Breckenridge residents, plus a couple of photographers, watched with pleasure as Lennox used an alarmingly large pair of scissors to cut the red ribbon across the front door of the new school library. Of course, they couldn’t see the rot on the chief’s face, which had completely eaten through his left cheek. He was surrounded by a group of photogenic young students, who applauded on cue. Matt had a sudden horrific vision of Lennox using the huge scissors to snip off their little heads. He shook it off. The real horrors of the past year and a half were filtering into his imagination as well as his dreams.

Grinning, Lennox pulled his wife to his side. Did she flinch or was Matt imagining things?

“Kathy’s the real star of the show,” he announced. “She led the fund-raising committee and oversaw construction of the new building. While planning that amazing Pioneer Days festival, of course.”

Kathy smiled. She was a very pretty blonde in a flattering blue dress, with perfect makeup and hair. She and Lennox were the image of a golden couple. But she definitely looked uncomfortable as she posed with her husband. A sign of ordinary marital tension, or could she sense the inner rot? Lennox kissed her cheek and smoothly removed himself from the spotlight.

As Kathy spoke about the benefits of the new library, Matt kept the chief in sight. He shook hands and chatted with several men in suits. Matt edged closer, trying to hear what Lennox was saying. But he was clearly wearing his public face and probably wouldn’t reveal much about his evil plans, whatever they might be.

Lennox glanced in his direction and Matt turned away. He saw that Kathy had finished speaking and was now making her way toward a supply of bottled water on a folding table. Matt got there half a step faster, snagged a bottle, and handed it to her.

“The library’s beautiful,” he said.

“Thank you.” She accepted the bottle. He could see her scanning her memory, trying to identify him and coming up dry. She smiled. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Kathy.”

She extended a hand and he shook it. “Matt.”

“Are you new in town, Matt?” Kathy focused her blue eyes on his.

“No,” he said, thinking fast. “Not yet, anyway. I’m relocating in the spring.”

She put a hand on his arm and leaned in. “You’ll love it here. It’s a fantastic place to raise a family.”

“So I hear. Your husband’s the chief of police, right?”

He watched her reaction. Kathy’s smile didn’t budge. She glanced at Lennox, who was still schmoozing. “Yes, he is.”

“You must feel really secure,” said Matt.

“Tom keeps everyone safe.”
Nice canned answer,
he thought, as Kathy boasted about the low crime rate. Did Matt know that Breckenridge was the safest place to live in the Duluth metro area? As a matter of fact, he did. Kathy proceeded to describe the wonderful schools, the great restaurants, and the scenic lake just a short drive away.

“Sounds like paradise,” he told her.

“I don’t know about that.” She sounded pleased. Then she asked brightly, “Are you working with a Realtor yet?”

Ah, thought Matt, now he understood the sales pitch. “Not yet.”

Sure enough, she whipped out a business card and slipped it into his hand. “What kind of home are you looking for?”

“Nothing too big,” said Matt, improvising. “A yard would be nice.”

Kathy smiled. “I know just the place. An adorable little two-bedroom. If you have some time, I’d love to show it to you.”

She was an efficient saleswoman, he’d give her that. Matt looked over at Lennox, who was laughing at somebody’s joke. It stretched the tattered flesh of his cheek, tearing it all the way back to his ear. He turned back to Kathy, hoping she could provide some clue to her husband’s activities.

“Great,” he said. “I’d like to see it.”

They got into Kathy’s sensible sedan. As she drove, she asked, “Do you have a family?”

“No.” His thoughts went to Janey, but he didn’t mention her. He still wasn’t ready to discuss his dead wife with strangers.

“How about you? How long have you been married?” he asked.

“Thirteen years. We have a wonderful son, Christopher.”

Matt nodded. “Does he want to be a cop when he grows up, like his dad?”

Kathy contained a small laugh. “I don’t think so. He’s more of a reader and an artist. His pencil sketches are really quite good.”

She continued extolling her son’s various talents. Whenever Matt tried to steer the conversation back toward Lennox, she neatly sidestepped with a vague pleasantry and changed the subject. She inquired about Matt’s background and got him talking about growing up in Washington, spending summers at his grandfather’s cabin.

“We always spent the whole time working: chopping firewood, fixing the roof. But I loved it. He never treated me like a kid. We were just two guys, doing useful work.”

“You miss him,” she observed.

“Yeah,” Matt agreed. “I think about him every time I use his ax.” He glanced at her, aware how odd it might sound. “I kept it after he died. Kind of a strange family heirloom, I suppose.”

Kathy grinned. “Not that strange. Mine is a fork.”

He gave her an inquiring look. She explained, “My family lived in Florida, near the coast. My father used to take me for walks along the shore, collecting seashells. One day…I must have been five or six…I found an old fork tangled in some seaweed. My father said it must have fallen off a pirate ship and washed ashore. He described the exotic meal that the pirate captain would have eaten with it, while his crew had to eat cold gruel.” She smiled to herself, remembering. “I still have it. In my jewelry box.”