Eight
“A Town with a Past”
Thursday
Lauffner was a good man, but he’d sure fucked up Nick Hall’s life. The prick had never once had a mind to consider that he had done his time and deserved freedom. And he cussed the old bastard for it because Nick was now a man with an albatross hanging around his neck.
Because if Nick Hall had known any of this shit, he would have bugged out long ago.
The town was dying and it had been for years. Because of zoning restrictions, no new businesses could locate on or near Patterson Plantation. The place was off limits and it had to stay that way. Nick tended to enjoy this quiet town, and the elitist snobs who ran it never knew how many times he had pranked them.
Like the time he had confiscated a half ton of Viagra from a trucker who ran bootlegged pills through the back roads. He made the driver stash them in his own garage on the North Road, then sent the man back to his gang leader to face certain punishment.
Nick, under cover of darkness, had spiked the town’s water tower with a half ton of Viagra and some testosterone enhancers. Even the hooker, Erin, couldn’t satisfy everyone enough to get them to soften up. She added a new living room set, paid off her mortgage and had enough money left to open a savings account.
And still, the town orgies lasted most of the night, just about every night, always in the home of a rotating roster of hosts with very heavy drapes on the walls and covering their windows.
Comically, he heard two men talking about how they couldn’t flush whatever it was out of their system no matter how much water they drank! Suspicion had fallen on the high school seniors, but the kids of that graduation year weren’t smart enough. Then he’d heard something about himself. “I wonder if the sheriff did it, you know? For revenge? Because he can’t be getting balled by anyone. Maybe if we have him over one night.”
“You kidding me? I don’t care who gets off in Missy, but I can’t bear to think of the Sheriff on top of her.”
“Oh, get off it. Missy likes to think she’s helping men whose wives don’t put out for them, just the rest of us. And the sheriff is single, never has been hitched.”
“Okay, fair enough. But still, no. No way. He’d ruin all our wives. He’s supposed to be hung like an elephant.”
“Hmm. Guess you’re right. Bad idea.”
Nick, who was really just built average in the meat department, laughed with a hand over his mouth, standing just around the corner. He had dodged the bullet because of a rumor he had started!
There were two men who had heart attacks. Two who gave up and went to the hospital up in La Plata. And one who had a boner that lasted for two weeks and did nothing about it, and suffered profound tissue and blood vessel damage, precipitating the urgent need for amputation. Nick actually felt bad about that one. He decided he would do something to avenge the poor man’s fallen flagpole.
He started asking snitches and sources about synthetic estrogen; he was having fun.
But in light of never issuing permits for any business, the town was killing itself. The old Esso station across the street from his station was abandoned in 1971, before the Exxon logo was brought about. That happened while Nick was still overseas. The old repair shop and the gas station office still stood, as did the island for two gasoline pumps which still supported the pumps, hoses and all. There was even an old Coca-Cola machine with a wood crate beside it for collecting the used returned bottles.
There was space available in buildings already existing, but the bank owned those and they weren’t selling or even talking about it. He’d love to have the old drug store with a soda fountain back. But no one would listen. They drove up to La Plata and Waldorf to get prescriptions filled, or had them delivered.
And no new homes had been built since 1966, and even if a resident moved out, nobody would buy their house.
That was, in part at least, because of the Curse of the Patterson Plantation.
And that part, Nick knew all too well. Lauffner didn’t have to tell him. While Nick was overseas, his younger brother had gone souvenir hunting with two other boys upon learning that the manor was untouched since right after the Civil War. They dreamt of treasures and antiques and guns, but never made it home and were never seen again. Nick’s older brother, who was gay, had gone off the deep end, finally moving to France, renouncing his United States citizenship, and even though he did hear from Gilbert from time to time, and Nick loved him and had never been against his brother’s choice of sexuality, he hated getting his phone calls, preferring email. Gilbert talked with a decidedly effeminate, lisping, fake-French accent, and every time Nick said his name, would get nasty and say, “It is pronounced ‘Gil-bear,’ brother.” In fact, Nick couldn’t understand a word the fucker said anymore.
Then there was the reason for his current fury: his sister, Sherry.
He did not know whether to love or hate her half the time, and the truth was, he envied her for leaving this shit hole, making a mint as a major journalist who freelanced to news magazines and the Associated Press, and who kept UPI in the competition. Her articles about the series of fires in Howard and Anne Arundel counties in 1979, while she was still in college at Berkeley on the other side of the country, had been admitted as credit toward her thesis. She earned her degree when she was already a big-name journalist.
High and mighty now, Shitty Sherry would never deign to set foot in this town again. Occasionally, just to see his niece, Nick would leave his deputy in charge and drive up to Annapolis. Shannon loved her uncle, who she called her “teddy bear,” and would sit on his lap with her arms wrapped around his neck, her head on his chest. She melted his heart, knowing that hers was the only unconditional love he ever had.
But Sherry had also flown the coop because of something specific. Now it was time to hear it. With all communication down and no way to get up there, “now” would have to wait. But it was feeling rather urgent.
***
When Nick was in high school, he got out earlier than Sherry, so he was outside on a warm May afternoon, mowing the lawn, when Sherry, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, walked down from the bus stop, face red and tear-streaked. She knew better than to let her brother Nick see her like this because of his temper, but this time she had been driven to a point of humiliation she just couldn’t take.
Her mother had told her it was time for a training bra. Sherry, having no reason to think anything about it, made the mistake of wearing a white Mickey Mouse shirt. The boys had made such a great sport of pulling the strap in back and snapping it like a slingshot that she just had enough. And the time to make her loving brother pay for her shame and embarrassment was at hand: he made her name the boys, and she told him. He found every one of them enjoying afternoon activities at the Riverside Hotel, jumping off the quay, cooling off. Nick joined them and beat two so bloody he thought he’d killed them, and he nearly drowned the others because that was less risky than using his fists. He later told the sheriff that he was thinking about becoming a preacher, so he was “practicing baptism.”
Sheriff Lauffner didn’t like Nick’s kind of humor or justice. He kept Nick in the jail while he figured out what to do with the boy. Clearly, he had been in too many fights, and not even many grown men could outmatch him. Nick was a fighter. He liked justice but took it into his own hands, and those kids had done nothing bad enough to deserve such harrowing violence.
And, truth be told, it was Nick’s little sister who had been wrong by wearing such scandalous clothing to school. Girls looked obscene in anything but dresses and skirts. Even women of the loose kind didn’t dare wear men’s athletic style shirts, Mickey Mouse or no.
Finally, It was his father who settled it: “Now Sheriff, y’know I don’t think none the less a ya for this, and I might not think nothin less a my boy, neither. I’m gonna have to get the missus to talk to mah daughter bout this here kinda thing, but you can’t hold my boy for defendin his sister’s honor, less you got a charge ya can make stick. Got me a pretty smart fella for a lawyer, and I know what I mean here.”
“Frank, I agree. Let’s make an agreement,” Lauffner said amiably. “I say put him to good use, his fighting skills and all. He’s in the Army or the Marines and I do mean now. He might be sixteen, but I think he looks old enough, don’t you?”
Nick said nothing. He loved the idea. His sister had, through her own indiscretion, thrown him to the dogs. He couldn’t wait to leave his family and this fucked-up town. When the ink on a new birth certificate was dry, Lauffner drove him right to the enlistment center and waited for him. He even sat in the lobby, fanning himself with his straw Sheriff’s hat. “Gonna be a hot summer, eh, boys,” he teased. The recruits headed to the busses outside weren’t amused. They were going somewhere hotter than this place, and some wouldn’t come back.
Now, things had changed. Those kids last night unleashed something at the manor that killed three kids, kidnapped one, then killed eight trained soldiers in a matter of minutes. He could not afford to wait. Something was going on that Lauffner had tipped him about then told him about. His last words were, “If the ghost of Lady Patterson gets set free, and you’ll know if you see her, there’s information in an old strongbox in the filing room. But if you don’t see her, don’t open it.
“If she is free, open it as soon as you can because if you don’t, she can get to it and take out what you need to know. What’s in the box will change depending on the circumstances of her release. And Nick, don’t play around. She can kill even when she’s in spirit form. Back then, the town elders had to call in an exorcist from Rome.”
There was no comfort in anything he said. Lauffner went home that night and shot himself.
He had cursed Nick from the beginning, sending him off to fight a war against people who were just sick of being invaded. All they wanted was to be left alone.
What the hell was so wrong with that?
They should have been left alone.
But Nick had a job to do, and he relished the battles. He turned into a roaring monster when a firefight turned close-quarters, especially hand-to-hand. His buddies were more terrified of him than the NVA any day, and every night. They saw him turn men into dogfood with his bare hands, growling like a goddamn lion the whole time.
He was wounded but got back to his unit too fast so many times they weren’t surprised after his third time. Twice he was operated on and twice he went missing from the recovery room and like always, he just showed up at whatever sandbag palace they happened to be in.
He soon became a sergeant, and he demanded one hundred percent from every man, but he never made them go anywhere he wouldn’t go. If they needed to detour to keep from taking casualties, fine. His platoon even scored the best body count in his company five months in a row without a single casualty of their own. He turned his men into bloodthirsty, dirty fighters. He used the dirty tricks used by the Viet Cong against them. And some of those tricks he made even more effective than anything Charlie ever had.
Nick came back home in his Class As with all kinds of ribbons and medals, and Lauffner was waiting when he got off the bus. “Welcome back, son. I sure was sorry your daddy passed away while you were gone. Now it’s time for you to wear a different uniform.”
Three months of boring deputy work, and he had the sheriff’s badge. He never knew that it was part of the deal with his father to keep Nick out of jail.
He would have happily served the jail sentence.
Being the sheriff had plenty of benefits, and breaking county and state laws was one of them. The town, while technically a part of the United States, the State of Maryland and Charles County, had its own government, which the state and county could not contravene. If asked for emergency assistance, they had to respond, but legal issues were different. The town could not prosecute felony crimes, but on Nick’s authority and request, he could extradite them to Charles County for that. So far, it had never happened.
But he did regularly talk on the radio to county Police officers and he had friends up there. And he had the feeling that he would need their help soon.
But the town held far darker secrets than hidden autonomy, orgies and the stain of slavery and villainy in its past.
Granger Ford owned the old cinema, closed long ago but then the second most visited attraction in town. He once showed Snow White and Pinocchio as double features for two months and attracted business from around the state. It was a very old theater with a disused stage and rich, green velvet curtains. Granger kept the place spotless, which he had time to do since everything was closed on Sundays. He closed the curtains when a feature ended, and they were a marvel, always free of dust and beautiful as new.
Then something changed. Mainly, World War Two happened. Every eligible man had gone to the recruiters in La Plata, and many were gone the next day. Already too old to wear a uniform, Granger had to say goodbye to his son, who went to fight with the Marines. He died in the Battle of Guadalcanal and was shipped home in a pine crate. He was buried in Arlington and his father was a broken man ever after. He had declined to the point that, by the 70s, he was reduced to shitty movies like “The Battling Bellhop” and “Frankenstein” three times a day. Oh, but that wasn’t the worst part.
Most of the new pictures skipped his Rialto and went to more populated towns. Granger was unable to even get his hands on another Disney print now. His ticket sales weren’t worth it.
He closed most days, but admitted the wealthy in town who paid good money to see bootlegged movies, triple X reels that disgusted him. Then he was contacted by men with “better” movies he could show after hours that almost anyone would pay half a grand to watch.
“Barnyard Fun,” “Sally’s Shetland Pony,” and other bestiality movies in foreign languages with no subtitles made good money. Until he was busted by Sheriff Lauffner. He yanked Granger’s license, ensuring that no legitimate distributor would ever send another decent movie.
Granger Ford was out of business.
He wanted to shoot the sheriff, but instead, he unbolted every seat on the floor, carried them all out back, drew a white pentagram on the floor, stuck candles on the points and lit them, then he sat in the middle and poured gasoline over his head and lit a match.
The building remained intact, but the thing nobody knew was that this was a prime example of the Curse of the Pattersons.
Annapolis
18:00
“Shannon”
Shannon Hall was 37, but looked like she was in her early twenties. She had a free head of blonde hair that naturally looked great even when she rolled out of bed with a monster of a migraine, which she had just now done.
She found her mother in the kitchen, brewing tea on the gas stove. The power came back on and lights made Shannon wince and shut her eyes tight. “Oh, heavens,” Sherry said, helping her sit at the dining room table. “I’m sorry, Shannon, I know you have a headache, dear. In a minute, we’ll have tea. What a miracle! We have power back so soon!” She turned off the hanging lights but Shannon seemed fine with them. “It’s okay, Mama,” she said. “Some tea will help, it’s not that bad. But your special tea would be much appreciated.”
She was pensive for a moment then said, “I dreamt about him again.”
Sherry found this frightening. Her sweet daughter suffered enough with her “gift,” and the migraines must have been unbearable, but the dreams, those were a different kind of torment. “Wait for the tea, then you can tell me about it.”
Shannon took a sip of her mother’s magical tea, and the pain began to subside. She knew there was an added ingredient, but she couldn’t find it in the cabinets nor get her mother to admit anything. It was certainly herbal, that was true, but what was it?
Two more sips and she smiled, her headache all but gone, and she looked to her mother like a radiant goddess, her hair falling naturally and her smile beautiful. Her light blue sweater seemed as if it was custom made just for her, yet despite all their money, Shannon insisted on shopping in person at department stores in the Annapolis Mall. She bought straight off the rack, her standard uniform being jeans and a sweater over a T-shirt, and Nike shoes. She hated formal dresses and stayed at home when her mother had to attend some party or fundraiser.
Shannon shunned crowds except when shopping. She had the misfortune of being so sensitive to others that staying too close for too long always ended with her seeing their thoughts, feeling their emotions and getting a migraine because people thought such evil things, felt the most base, unspeakably horrible emotions, and Shannon hated it.
But as beautiful as she was inside and out, Shannon’s worst and most dreaded curse was her nightmares.
Lately, they were all about an older man with long, grey hair, who carried a big stick. He haunted her, it seemed, all her life, but not as much as he did now. Last night’s dream was frightening and she could never forget it.
“It was him again, Mother, but this time he was surrounded by black shadows like giant sticks who were weaving like reeds in the wind. I know they were demons, and I believe he’s their leader. Like a demon in the flesh. I saw kids lying dead in the snow, and a boy being chased. Then I saw the man in the hospital, broken and in great pain. When I saw that, it was different, like I was there. Why was I in his hospital room, Mother?”
“I don’t know, Shannon. I can’t see or do the things you can. But I do know other things. Have you been on the website at all?”
“No, you know that kind of material scares me.”
“Maybe you should look around. My contributors update all the time, and some might be able to help.
Sherry, under a bogus identity, had the most immense paranormal website in the country. Everything was there, but if something was a debunked event or thing, she had it in its own section.
“But I don’t think that you should be afraid of the old man. If you saw him in the hospital, he’s no demon. Maybe what you saw when he was surrounded was him being attacked. Those don’t usually end well for humans.”
Shannon thought about it, her fear leaving her for the moment. She reached across the table and took a menthol light from her mother’s pack, used her own lighter and said, “There’s more. Uncle Nick, he’s in danger. He’s going to do something reckless and he might die. We have to get in touch with him.”
“All of the lines are down. I don’t know how we have power. In less than 24 hours, we have had five feet of snow.”
“Mother, how many times have I told you? Have faith. Faith is what brings miracles.”
Defeated, Sherry sipped her magic tea and felt much better.
***
Our dear Mr. Fisher will now make a statement.
The end was finally in sight. He stood at the edge of the property line. Freezing and exhausted, John Fisher saw a snow drift that completely bridged the perimeter fence, and he walked right over it. Ahead laid the end of a runway and he feared crews would be trying to clear it, so he went parallel to it, keeping his distance. But he had to stop and rest. His legs were knotted with cramps, his back ached and his face and feet were frozen. He stopped to drink the last of his coffee from the Munsters mug. When it was empty, he tossed it away, and felt as if he had committed sacrilege: a true collector’s piece, a slice of Americana from a forgotten time and a different country.
Well, he was about to collect the tab for what America had done to itself and to hapless souls like his.
He smoked one last cigarette, tossing the pack and the lighter beside the thermos.
The smoke was harsh in the relentless icy wind, but he needed it. He was about to make his last stand, a statement, a declaration of war that he hoped would inspire better soldiers than he to break the Illuminati. They were the ones running America into the ground, and he would have his say.
Yes,John, rest. You will need all the strength you have to show them. There will be no time and no need for words, John. Death says it all.
That voice again. He knew it was right. Once he fired the first shot, there would be no time and no need for words.
It took a half hour to get to the terminal. He had to get inside fast or his mission would end right here.
He ended up on the back side, where truck deliveries were offloaded. It just so happened that one overhead door was halfway open and a man was on the dock smoking. He didn’t see John Fisher, who brought the M-16 up, aimed at his center of mass, and fired. The man instantly dropped. Laughing, John stepped out of his snowshoes and slid down the cleared ice to the pavement below. The landing hurt his back even more, and now his nerve endings screamed at him to stop. He ignored it and, mounting the dock, bent painfully and cleared the door, then went further in toward a fan-forced Reznor overhead heater. It was old, but the vents blew delicious warmth down on him, and he stood for as long as he could, until he had to relieve himself. He no longer followed laws or courteous conduct, so he waited until a couple of women in uniforms were within sight and pissed on the floor, and the astonished women ran back out of the service and supply room, a cavernous monster that was too dark for his liking.
It was time. No longer needing the ruck, he slid his skinny arms out and let it drop. The spare magazines he stashed in his deep coat pockets, with a couple left over for the satchel, which held the grenades.
He opened a random door, and walked right into a terminal at a boarding gate.
Perfect.
He leveled the rifle and aimed into a crowd of stranded travelers, thumbed the switch that let it fire full automatic, and pulled the trigger. Instantly screams filled the air and he couldn’t resist; he picked a grenade out of the canvas bag, flicked off the safety, pulled the pin and hurled it 30 feet into the panicked mass.
It was glorious. Shrapnel tore into flesh and pinged hard on the high ceiling. One body blew apart, cartwheeling away from the crowd.
“Fisher! Put down your weapon and step back!”
John Fisher knew that his mission ended in his own death. He was ready for it to be over, but he hadn’t satisfied his anger yet.
He looked into the clear blue eyes of a man braced with an enormous handgun, and those eyes did not condemn him. They were serious yet not judging him. Suddenly, John knew that he wanted to die, but he didn’t want this man to send him off. It was all wrong. Such understanding eyes. He didn’t want to fire. But he would.
Suddenly all of the hatred and anger he had felt, everything that accumulated over the decades, all the insults, the beatings and humiliation….were gone.
No! No, John, you are my favorite son and we must finish this! Shoot him!
That fucking voice again.
“John, you’re hearing an unclean spirit. Don’t let it kill you. Don’t let it win, John. If you listen to it, you will die. I don’t want you dead. You can be saved. Confess your sins and turn away from evil. God never gets tired of forgiving. Please, John.
Fisher looked at the man, rugged but handsome, well dressed in an Armani suit, perfectly tailored. And the bore of that cannon was something John knew would be fatal at this distance.
Kill him, John! Now!
A terrible pain seared through his head, promising more if he didn’t obey.
He didn’t want more. He brought the rifle up, and the man with the beautiful eyes pulled the trigger on his artillery piece.
A cloud of gunpowder obscured the cop’s vision, but he knew he had hit the mark. When the smoke cleared, he saw that John Fisher was down, in a sitting position, against a big column. He was alive, but the hole in his belly told Joe Routson that John Fisher was through. He holstered his own weapon and went forward to take the M-16 off the dying man’s lap, then he cleared it and leaned in to whisper in John’s ear, “John, I know where you’ll go, I’ve been there. Don’t let that happen. Become a Christian right now. Ask forgiveness for your crimes. Then rest. You’ve earned some rest. Do you believe?”
“Yes.” John was paralyzed from the thoracic spine down. His arms were useless too.
“Do you repent?”
“Yes,” John Fisher said. “Officer, I… I’m… sorry…”
His eyes closed. His chest stopped heaving. Whether he could be at peace now, no one but God knew. Joe Routson heard troopers and radio crosstalk coming up behind him. That was good, because Joe felt funny. He looked down and his immaculate white shirt was stained with blood, dark blood from a serious bleed, the stain growing fast. Fisher had gotten a shot off after all. They probably both fired at the same time.
“I forgive you, John.”
The world went dark.
***
Hippie sat beside Robin, and they looked at a map he had pulled up. On it, he had the coordinates for two places, one where a sheriff was in danger; the other, a house on Spa Creek in Annapolis.
“These two have to talk to each other. But to let them, I have to swear you to secrecy. The others can’t even know about this, and it’s for their protection and yours. If there are no witnesses then there’s nothing to tell. You found a DVD among my belongings. You need that.”
Robin went and retrieved it, and Hippie said, it goes into the HP, so go ahead and insert it. You’ll see an ‘exe pop-up’. Click yes, and it will do the rest.”
Robin did as he directed her to, and once downloaded she saw a full screen that said, CIA and beneath that, “United States Central Intelligence Agency” and she stared at him. “Really?” She asked.
“Robin, please.”
She resigned herself to the task and connected the coordinates to the phone at her station. First, Nick Hall.
An emergency pipeline of communications and high voltage power conduits buried far below the surface from a central hub to strategic locations throughout the country. “If they both have power, this will work.” He told her.
“Sheriff’s Office.”
“Sheriff Hall?” Hippie asked.
“Yes, how can I help you?”
“We’re here to help you, Sheriff. Please stand by while we connect your call.”
“What’s this about?”
“Stand by, please.”
Another phone rang. The woman who picked up had a beautiful, dainty voice. “Hello?”
“Miss Hall?”
“Yes,” Shannon said.
Okay, I’m very sorry, Shannon. I’m trying to reach your mother.”
“Hold one moment.”
“Hello?”
“Miss Hall, I’m connecting you to your brother. When he answers, I will have to keep the line open, but I will not eavesdrop. You two need to talk. Think very carefully before you terminate the call. It’s important that you cover everything. Once you hang up, I will not be able to reestablish communication. But we will meet. Possibly very soon. Go ahead, Sheriff. It’s your sister.”
Sherry was happy to hear his voice. “Nick, what’s going on?”
“I got trouble here, Sis. Last night kids had ’emselves a party down to the Patterson Plantation. Three were killed and one was taken. Eight soldiers from the search party were murdered. And I saw Lady Patterson as real and solid as you please, and Lauffner left me some stuff in a box that I think you outta know about. I’m sending snapshots to your email. I hope you get them because I need to know how them pictures got into a box that has been locked away since the last century.”
Sherry swore. “That’s not possible. This is Shannon the way she looks right now. It’s right on her Instagram page. I don’t know who the man is.”
“I do,” Shannon said, fear thick in her voice. Sherry knew exactly who she meant. Shannon said, “It was his voice on the phone. The man who connected the call.”
“Alright. Great. Now tell me how them pictures got there.”
“Nick, I give you my word, I don’t know.”
“Look here, Sis. You owe me. In an hour one day I got you some payback. Them boys were protective of you after that. Nobody ever messed with you again, not even while I was away getting riddled with bullets. When I came back, you were gone. I was stuck to this town by a badge. Yes I am pissed and yes I’m still paying for it. You never once came to visit me. I have to initiate the calls. I have to do the visiting. I’m stuck in that shitty house, while you have a million dollar home. So it’s time for you to pay up and do it right now, and if you lie, I’ll know.”
“Jesus Christ, Nick.”
He could hear Shannon telling her not to take the Lord’s name in vain.
“I don’t know much, Nick. And I never wanted you to beat those boys up. I never wanted you to go to Vietnam, either. Those things happened because of a choice you made, not me. As far as the Pattersons, all I can tell you is, after her husband died, Lady Patterson was the one who started the tradition of the town snobbies having orgies. I found that the women hated her and the men were afraid of her. She seemed to have retreated to her mansion at some point. There were no records of her buying seeds and fertilizer, or selling tobacco or corn. When slavery was abolished her slaves never left but it was suspected that she killed them. She burned the bodies in a barbecue pit and when the army went to investigate, no trace of her was found except a letter. It was something to do with her not being buried after death, a warning that if she wasn’t given a Christian burial, she would return. Then she would destroy the town and everyone in it.”
“And you never thought to tell me about that?”
“No, because I don’t believe in that shit, and neither should you.”
“What part of ‘I saw her’ didn’t you hear?”
“I heard you.”
“You’re calling me a liar then?”
She was trapped.
“Sis, all I want are answers. There are gonna be more attacks, you know there are. Do you really think so little a me that you don’t think I’ve ever found your website? You know more about this than you are ready to say. There’s a specific reason you didn’t keep the house. You ran away and left our daddy to die alone while he sat on a shitty lavender-colored toilet. I want to know what could make you do such a shit-ass thing like that.”
“Get out, Nick. Just leave, okay? Tell everyone to. The town will die, the people will die, unless you all leave. Don’t take anything from that place, either. Clothes and personal things yes, but no furniture. Everything stays. That’s what I know. But you won’t listen and neither will anyone else. You’re all going to die. Come up here, Nick. Please, Shannon would really be happy. She tells me all the time.”
“Shannon.” He said softly. “Not you. What did I ever do to make you hate me so much?” He set the phone down, ending the call.
“Damn siblings. People get so bitter they can’t help each other even if it will save their lives and the lives of others,” Hippie said, barely whispering. He lowered his head and then shook it in wonder. “I really thought it would work. I didn’t know their history, well, not enough, apparently.”
“Robin said, “Look, Hippie, I don’t have the first idea what you want or how to help you, but at least you tried. You can’t make people reconcile, no more than you can force them to believe in God. It has to be their choice to love or hate, reconcile or remain estranged. Third parties like marriage counselors tend to do more harm than healing. You know this. Where was your faith?
He gave her a wan smile, defeated. “You can toss the disk now, but the programming is in your hard drive. You can’t delete it and they can’t track you. No one can. It will show up on the main screen as a shortcut to the Nautilus program, or NP. You click on it, and you can do just about anything you want. Don’t ask why I had it. I think you already know anyway. Yours is one of the most brilliant intellects I’ve ever come across. I suggest you get to know the things it can do. Later, we’ll need every tool we can get our hands on.”
He got up, asked Sandy where he could take a nap without being in the way, and she led him upstairs to “his” room. He thanked her and asked her to encourage the others to pray for everyone in harm’s way. He said, “So many…” And laid down, closed his eyes and was asleep in seconds.
Sandy lingered at the door, saw him go out, and took an extra blanket out of the hallway closet, then returned and gently put it on him. She closed the door as quietly as she could, and whispered, “Sleep well, Hippie.”
***
Joe was once again in an ambulance, aware of it this time, and the shaking and rough bumping were agonizing. Tough as he was, having a bullet in him and being used as a chicken leg in a Shake ‘n Bake bag was something he was never going to forget. “Detective, the wound bled a lot so we have a unit of whole blood going. It looks like the round might not have done any serious damage. I’ve given you two shots of morphine so you’re going to feel better ’til we get you to the hospital. The only one with a route open to us is Saint Agnes, so it might take some time, but I really think you’re out of danger for now. Your vitals are all fair, pretty good for a man who’s been shot. Just be patient. Rest.”
***
Nick Hall was still pissed. He laid down on a cell cot, trying to figure out how to do what the letter the bishop left in the box instructed. Even that man didn’t know where Lady Patterson was buried; he wasn’t even sure if she was buried. How was he supposed to find her under all of this snow?
His last thought as he went to sleep was that he should drop his badge off at the mayor’s office and get far away, maybe move to Texas.