The Black Death (2 page)

“That sounds fine.”

“And, if you don’t mind,” said the cop as he walked back to the cruiser, “you can go ahead and set in the back once you get your bag secured. No offense, but until I run your ID, we can’t be buddies.”

Matt unstrapped the bag and walked to the car, waiting for his nerves to kick in. So far, whether this was headed somewhere nasty or not, Matt felt pretty good, even with the possible ID trouble. He threw his bag in the trunk of the police cruiser, closed it, and then hopped in the backseat. The cop was already on a CB, talking to someone about sending Kenny over to pick up a bike. Smiling at the air-conditioning, Matt decided being a little civilized for a few days might not be the worst thing in the world.

***

Matt sat wordlessly in the back of the cruiser as the cop drove, realizing after the third turn that they were going somewhere that Matt most certainly wouldn’t have run into in his travels had the bike not broken down. The term
off the beaten path
only became more apt as they transitioned from blacktop to dirt roads and then to gravel as they entered town. Along with a single flashing red light, Matt saw the sheriff’s station, a restaurant called Mortimer’s that was wearing a few signs advertising Bud Light, a gas station connected to a service shop that Matt felt quite certain he would be frequenting over the next hour or two, and a small store that he figured was probably good for a little bit of everything.

The cop stopped the cruiser outside the sheriff’s building and walked around the car to let Matt out. Watching him move, Matt could tell the man was distracted by something, but it was impossible to tell what. The second the car door opened, Matt knew exactly what it was. Someone was shouting, maybe even a few someones. The cop pulled the door open slowly, and Matt got out, the heat back on him immediately and the respite from the air-conditioning forgotten just as quickly. The cop said, “You hang on right here, Matt,” then unsnapped his holstered pistol and began to walk toward Mortimer’s. The cop’s decision was confusing to Matt. He felt certain the bar wasn’t the cause of the noise—rather, the store across the road. Matt opened his mouth to say something, and then two people exploded through the front window of the store. The first of the two was a younger kid, a teenager. His eyes were solid black, and he was running impossibly fast toward the cop, who was just now turning to the disturbance.

First hopping the hood of the police car and then running at a full sprint, Matt was moving as fast as he was able, hearing but not hearing the cop telling the kid to back off. The kid was moving like an animal, faster than a human should have been able to, and doing it with his hands and feet levering him across the gravel road. Seeing no other signs of Mr. Dark’s corruption, nor feeling any of that awful vibe that people were about to start dying all around him, Matt continued toward the kid, who was gnashing his teeth as he closed in on the cop, still fumbling with his gun.

The kid made the cop first and had him on his back immediately. Matt could see that the guy’s gun had been knocked from his hands and lay useless a few feet away. Not thinking, merely operating on reaction, Matt ran to them, cocked back a foot sheathed in a steel-toed riding boot, and kicked the kid under the jaw as hard as he could. The kid made a noise like a dog with his balls caught in a mousetrap and lifted up to hover over the cop for a moment before falling to the man’s side and crashing down on his belly.

For his part, the cop reacted pretty well. He had cuffs out and on the kid’s wrists before getting up and dusting himself off. Matt watched him walk to his gun, pick it up and give the semiautomatic a brief inspection, and then reholster it. The cop spit in the dirt, then shook his head. “Goddamn idiot kids. Can you hear me, Jeff Walters?” The cop shook his head again. “I suppose you can’t, at least not yet. He’s going to wake up with one pounder of a headache, Matt.”

“I’d say he bought and paid for the right to have it.”

“I’ve been rude,” said the cop as he extended his right hand. “Name’s Frank Herbert.” Matt took Frank’s hand and shook it.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you, too, partner. Not sure how much damage that little psycho could have done, but there wasn’t a whole lot I was up to at the moment when you got to kicking. Thank you for that.” Frank nodded at the road and the blown-out window, along with the other guy who’d flown through it, who was now sitting up and seemed to be taking inventory of the damage. “I’m going to go make sure Lem’s okay over there, and if you could do me a favor and poke your head in the station, that would be great. Should be a lady at the desk named Flo who’ll come out and put a shotgun on that asshole.”

The cop began to walk across the road, calling out, “Hey, Lem, hot enough for ya?” at the man in the road, who Matt could see had a nice cut on his head. Sparing one last look at the now snoring kid on the ground, Matt walked to the police station to see about Flo.

She was not what Matt had expected. Flo was pretty and short, with short blonde hair, and had skipped on the cop outfit, apparently preferring a Black Flag T-shirt and jeans. She gave him an irritated look as he entered. “Whatcha want?” Flo said as he walked in. “Sheriff’s out on a run.”

“He’s back now,” said Matt, “and he wants you outside on the double with a shotgun. Some kid out there attacked him.”

“Oh Lord,” she said, coming around the desk with a pistol-gripped shotgun that Matt felt quite sure had been pointed at him just moments earlier. “Did he kill him?”

“No,” said Matt, “just roughed him up a little bit before tucking him into bed.”

“That was mighty gracious of him. Is Frank okay?”

The way she said it, Matt figured Frank and Flo might be a little more than just coworkers. Pulling the door open, Matt said, “I think, other than possibly wounded pride, he’ll be just fine,” then followed her out the door.

“Fucking asshole,” said Flo when she saw the kid lying on the ground. She wasn’t pointing the gun at him, but it wouldn’t have taken much for her to move her arms and have him dead to rights. Matt gave a look to Frank. He and the storekeeper whom he’d gone to see to were walking over to them.

“You’re a quick bugger,” said the storekeeper. “Saved the sheriff’s bacon, from where I was sitting.”

“Lem, Flo, this is Matt Cahill, and he did indeed save my bacon.”

“I just did what anybody would have,” said Matt, shaking Lem’s hand and getting ignored by Flo, who was still fixated on the prone and still-twitching junkie.

“You see this, Frank?” Flo asked, gesturing at the teenager with the barrel of the gun. One of the teen’s eyes had lolled open, and Matt was staring at it.

“I did, black as an eclipse,” said Frank, and Matt felt as if he’d been punched in the guts.

“You can see that?” Matt asked, and three heads swiveled toward him.

“Of course we can,” said Frank. “It’s there plain as day to look at.”

Can they see the Dark Man’s mark
, Matt thought,
or is this something else?
Matt let the thought slide away to answer Frank, who was giving him the kind of look that only someone with a long history of working in law enforcement can give. “Yeah, I just meant that I thought I was seeing things when I noticed them earlier. I’ve never seen anyone with eyes like that before.”
Or at least not that I can tell you about if I want to stay out of the loony bin, that is.

“That’s understandable,” said Frank. “I was a bit put off the first time I saw them, too.”

“What is it?”

Matt watched Flo, Frank, and Lem all exchange a glance before Frank answered, and again, Matt was unsure if he was missing something or if they were just being paranoid around an outsider. “Why don’t I tell you a little later,” said Frank. “Right now, I need to get this guy in a cell, and I’m sure Lem wouldn’t mind having a talk about that broken window.”

“The window’s only the half of it,” said Lem. “You should see my store!”

“I will. Let me get this guy in a cell first,” Frank said. “Matt, you should just go park your keister over at Kenny’s—that’s the gas station. Right now, his tow truck is missing, but I have a feeling when it returns, it will have grown itself a motorcycle. Once you figure that out, come see me and I’ll get you your bag back.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Matt found a seat near the front door to the gas station. The door was locked, and someone—presumably Kenny—had stuck a sign on it that said,
Back Soon, Thanks for Your Patience
. Matt wasn’t feeling particularly patient when he saw it. The heat was only getting worse, and he wanted his bag back, along with some answers. When he sat down, though, Matt felt different. The road had been wearing him thin in ways that he hadn’t realized, and it was actually nice to just be somewhere for a few minutes.

That wasn’t something he was concerned with now, though. Food was a much more pressing need, and even the snack cakes, jerky, and other garbage he could see through the service station’s windows looked pretty good at the moment. The noise of a diesel engine interrupted Matt’s daydream of a steak dinner with an ice-cold glass of milk. Raising his head, he saw a wrecker pulling into the small parking lot. His bike was in the back, and a man—presumably Kenny—was driving. Matt stood, hunger momentarily forgotten, and brushed his hands off on his pants. The truck stopped in front of a closed garage door, and Kenny jumped out.

“This your scoot, buddy?”

“That’s the one. You’re Kenny?”

“I am,” said Kenny, and Matt shook his offered and filthy hand. “Frank said you were Mr. Cahill?”

“Matt will work just fine. Any idea what’s wrong with her?”

“No. I’ve got some guesses, but so far, that’s all they are. That said, if we were wagerin’ on it, I’d guess the tranny. You come back in a few hours, I’ll let you know just what exactly got fucked up and what it’s going to cost to unfuck it. You got any family around here?”

“Nope, I was just blowing through.”

“I’ve had thoughts of doing a similar thing,” said Kenny, gesturing with a nearly black hand at the dilapidated service station, “but I stay here and live the dream. Shoot, you only live once.”

If you’re lucky, you only live once
, thought Matt as he said, “Boy, that’s the truth.”

“Well, in any case,” said Kenny, “there’s a little shed out back of the gas station, used to be where my granddaddy lived before posterity come to town. You’re welcome to stay there if you’d like. There ain’t nothin’ worth stealin’, and the TV works about as well as one without
electricity usually does, but it is four walls and some shingles, and you can make the march to Mortimer’s if you get hungry.”

“That’s really kind of you, Kenny. It so happens that I do need a place to lie down, and to be perfectly honest, it’s been a few days since my head hit a pillow.”

“Well, Travelin’ Matt, here’s a key to the place,” Kenny said as he removed a green key fob attached to a key embossed to look like the American flag from his pocket. “I’d say you can go on and get settled, but you haven’t got anything with you.”

“Much obliged. Yeah, the sheriff still has my stuff with him. I’m going to head on over in a bit and try to convince him to give it back to me.” Matt had meant the comment to be lighthearted, but Kenny’s eyes turned to slits as he spoke, and the mechanic leaned in as if to tell an old friend a secret.

“You be careful with Frank. He don’t respect
our
ways as much as he ought to. He’s from around here, not like the guy who disappeared a few sheriffs back, but that don’t mean he won’t stick his nose in where it ought not get stuck. Point bein’, him and that bitch Flo can be cantankerous about the private doin’s of some individuals. Live and let live is what I say, and it’s what the Lord wants as well.”

“Amen to that,” Matt said, unsure of how else to respond.

“Yup,” said Kenny, who apparently considered
amen
to be a good way to end both a prayer and a conversation. Matt watched as Kenny opened the garage and then drove the truck inside. Seeing the broken bike on its back was actually a little sad. Matt had become more attached to the bike than he had to anything in a very long time. Giving a last look to the service station and listening to Kenny grunt with effort inside the garage, Matt walked back to the sheriff’s office.

Flo was sitting at her desk, and Matt felt a little better about her shotgun this time around. Both of her hands were on the desk, and she was reading a Joe R. Lansdale book. She gave him a look and a nod but otherwise kept right on reading.

“Frank’s in his office,” she said, then tilted her head and followed it up with, “through there.”

“Thanks,” said Matt, but there was no response as he strode past her desk. There were two doorways from which to choose, but one was closed and the other had Frank in it, so Matt
picked that one, rapping his knuckles twice on the doorframe before walking in. Frank gave him a nod as he entered and said, “Have a seat. I just have to fill out a couple more things.”

There were two chairs in front of Frank’s desk, a beat-up red one and a beat-up green one. Matt settled on green and sat down. Despite the looks, the chair wasn’t half bad for sitting. After a few minutes, Frank set down the pen and leaned back in his own seat.

“We can forgo the ID process, if it’s all the same to you. I owe you one, big time, and I’d hate to find out that I had to lock you up for something.” Frank sighed, then wiped a hand across his face. “I’ve been petitioning the DEA for a few years about the drug problem we have here in Spencer County, and all they ever tell me is that I need to document every drug case that I get. So I do, and send all my stuff in every year, both to them and the governor, and about a month later, I get a nice form letter telling me how understaffed they are and that I need to make sure to document every drug case that I come across. I can show you the letters if you’d like.”

“No,” Matt said, smiling. “I’ll take your word on it. What I would like to know is what in God’s name was that kid on?”

“New meth strain. We started seeing it about six months ago. Streets call it ‘the Plague.’ It’s like regular meth, but much more powerful than anything I’ve ever seen before. People who are already addicted to meth flock to it, and for most of them, it’s not a big deal, legal ramifications aside. For the average user, it’s supposed to be extremely euphoric and makes even the most basic motor skills difficult. Then you’ve got cases like the kid you kicked. For some of the junkies—and we have yet to know exactly what causes it, but my guess would be just plain old too much bad gas in a poorly made engine—they tweak out. Lem, the guy who owns the store, said that Jeff was stuffing his pockets with everything they could hold, wasn’t even trying to conceal the fact that he was stealing. Lem confronted him about it—”