The Directives (8 page)

The subject of Bishop’s attention turned, intent on crossing the street. The Texan watched as the man struggled with the curb and then proceeded to amble over the pavement. Deciding to be a Good Samaritan, Bishop waited and then offered a helping hand.

“Thank you, son,” the soft voice responded. “It’s not often someone offers to help an old soul these days.”

“You’re welcome, sir,” Bishop responded as he made sure his new friend negotiated the curb successfully. The task accomplished, the Texan
turned away and began to consider his route back to the courthouse.

He started to step across the street when something hard poked him in the back. The sensation was immediately accompanied by a rather young-sounding
voice. “My cane is chambered in a .308 Winchester, and my finger is on the trigger. It shoots pretty well. At pointblank range, it will blow a nice hole through your fancy body armor. Turn around slowly, and walk with me.”

A river of emotions flooded Bishop’s head. He was pissed at
himself for having fallen for the old man’s disguise and letting his guard down. He was also scared.

As he turned, he observed the feeble outline of the old body transform and grow. Right before his eyes, the stooped, semi-crippled frame rose to its full height and spread its girth. Bishop found himself beside a healthy, good-sized fellow. The cane-gun wasn’t shaking anymore. The gunman’s breathing and eyes were steady and confident.

“What do you want?” Bishop asked.

“Not here,” came the reply as the mugger’s head pivoted to check the area. “Pop that magazine out of your rifle, and clear the chamber,” he ordered.

Bishop hesitated for a moment, not wanting to comply. A sharp poke from the gun-cane made him reconsider.

“Now your sidearm,” the voice commanded. “Hand it over to me.”

Again, Bishop did as instructed.

“Walk with me… pretend you’re trying to help me down the street,” said the voice.

Bishop nodded, and then found himself hooking arms with a surprisingly muscular limb while the muzzle of his own pistol poked firmly against his ribs.

Staying in character, the abductor hunched over and hid his face as the duo shuffled along the sidewalk. “You’re such a nice young man,” the guy whispered. “Helping an old fella along. More young people should be so polite and accommodating.”

At least he has a sense of humor
, Bishop thought.
If he didn’t have a gun stuck in my ribs, I might actually like this guy.

A half block later, the voice hissed, “In here,” and pulled Bishop inside an abandoned store. The captive could see the rusty chain securing the front entrance had recently been cut.

As soon as they entered the darkened building, the escort stepped away and rose to his full height. Squaring his shoulders and stretching his spine, Bishop was looking at a man probably in his mid-30s. The guy was clearly in good physical condition, far from feeble.

“Sorry to do that to you, but you never know how someone is going to react. There are eyes and ears all over this town, and it wouldn’t go well if the mayor and his boys were to catch me.”

Bishop, assuming he was being robbed for his kit and gear, didn’t know what to say. He managed to come up with a single word. “So?”

“So, I need to talk to you. I figure you’re the
head honcho of that outfit that rolled into town this morning. I’ve seen you meet twice with Winfrey and his gang of cutthroats, and thought you might want to know the truth about Brighton, Texas.”

Again, articulation escaped the Texan. “So, talk.”

“Not here,” came the response. “Besides, you wouldn’t believe what I’ve got to tell you anyway. I need to show you… to prove our version of the events, and to do that, I’m going to ask you to come with me voluntarily.”

Fighting back a rising fury and cursing his own stupidity for getting bushwhacked, Bishop wasn’t in a verbose or particularly diplomatic mood. “Go with you
where
?”

“I don’t want to say, just in case we’re captured en route,” replied the stranger. “I will guarantee you won’t be harmed. I also promise you’ll be free to return to your people in a few hours.”

Bishop tilted his head, obviously pondering the request. “What if I say no?”

The hostage-taker smiled and then lowered Bishop’s pistol. Flipping the weapon around and then offering it gr
ip-first to his captive, he responded, “Then you’re free to go.”

Still thinking it through, Bishop was curious. “Is there really a .308 cartridge in your cane?”

The stranger smiled, holding up the crutch and working a small mechanism in the handle. Sure enough, a shiny brass cartridge fell into the man’s hand.

“Damn,” Bishop whispered. “I almost decided to test you on that. I thought you were a common street mugger trying to bluff.”

“That, my friend, would have been a mistake on your part,” the guy responded with a grin. “If the sheriff’s men had caught us fighting in the street, I would probably be dead by now. You would most likely be joining me in hell shortly afterwards. Lew’s boys don’t believe in leaving any witnesses.”

So far, the village of Brighton had offered nothing but anomalies, inconsistencies and glitches. Maybe the little trip his abductor proposed was really the path to enlightenment. “Okay, my curiosity is getting the better of me, overwhelming my commonsense,” Bishop said. “I’ll go.”

To Bishop’s surprise, the stranger pointed at Bishop’s rifle and then tossed over the magazine he’d removed just a few minutes before. “I’d reload that weapon if I were you. You never know when someone might try to rob us… or worse.”

As the two men exited the building, the stranger resumed his off-Broadway role, bending slightly at the waist and hobbling along. Bishop, trying to play his part, hooked arms and pretended to be assisting the old gentlemen.

As the two passed by the occasional pedestrian, Bishop received more than the normal number of smiles and nods, the citizens of Brighton obviously pleased to see the young helping the old.

“I wonder if I’ll get a merit badge for helping you cross the street.” Bishop mumbled.

“If you can’t eat it or shoot it, then who gives a shit?” came the hushed reply.

Before long, they were passing through the outskirts of town, open spaces becoming more common than homes or businesses. Another mile, and Bishop’s new friend shook off his helper and announced, “You’re cute as hell, but I’m spoken for.”

Bishop snorted at the one-liner and retorted with one of his own. “So can you tell me where we are going yet, or is my blind date still a mystery?”

“We’re getting close. We have to cut off the road before that next hill. There’s a Brighton roadblock immediately over the rise, and I’d prefer to avoid it if at all possible.”

The two men angled off into the woods, eating up the distance and circumventing the sentries on the road. After passing by the danger point, Bishop’s guide led them along the edge of what had once been a large field of some now unidentifiable crop. The hike was easier, and they trekked the distance quickly.

“Our first stop is right up here… about another half mile.” 

The two men approached a farmhouse from the rear, the back porch obscured by waist-high weeds. As they closed in on the abode, Bishop detected several windows were broken out, bullet holes splintering the surrounding frames. The back door was completely missing, black stains of smoke and debris everywhere.

“Looks like there was a firefight,” Bishop noted. “Quite a serious one at that.”

“This was the Colbert’s farm,” the actor stated coldly. “Burke Colbert’s great-grandfather traveled to Texas from Germany in the 1800s and settled this land.”

Bishop strode up the private road, his gaze taking in every detail of the now-empty structure. Someone had poured hundreds of rou
nds into the home. Not only was there a significant number of entry wounds in the old house’s frame, the driveway and sidewalk were littered with empty shell casings.

“The Colbert family held out for four hours. Eventually, our illustrious sheriff and his men got tired of wasting ammunition and upped their game with gasoline firebombs. That was the end of it.”

“Why?” Bishop questioned, trying to keep his voice and thoughts neutral. Experience had taught him that there were always two sides to every story. “What did the Colbert family do? What crimes were they accused of?”

The stranger shook his head slowly, “I know you don’t have any reason to believe a word I say. That’s why I brought you out here. I’ll answer your questions in a bit, but first, I want you to walk around and look at the front of the house.”

Bishop obliged, continuing to the front of the farmhouse. When he turned the corner, he inhaled sharply at the scene that confronted him.

There, nailed to the wall as if they had been crucified
on their veranda, hung four skeletons.

Birds, insects, and the elements had picked the bones clean, only a few shreds of clothing covering the deceased. Bishop turned to his tour guide, his expression a mixture of disgust and sadness. “Why?”

The stranger didn’t answer immediately. He ambled closer to the first skeleton and pointed to the scrap of faded, red and white checked cloth dangling from the pelvic bone. “This was Martha Colbert. She was my Sunday School teacher back when I was a kid. This fabric is from her kitchen apron. She always wore one around the house.”

He took another few steps and pointed to the next corpse. “This was Mike Colbert. We graduated from Brighton High School together. He was the captain of the football team and one of my best friends.”

Motioning Bishop closer, his guide reached up and lifted a belt buckle dangling from the body’s waist. It read, “Texas Division II State Champions – Brighton Tigers.”

The stranger then lifted his own shirt, an identical award adorning his belt. “We all got one,” were his only words.

Bishop started to turn away, but his host spoke again. “Before we go, I want you to see one more thing. Look at the skulls. Look at the wounds. Do you know what that means?”

After a moment of studying each of the four victims, Bishop shook his head in agreement. “Yes, I know what that means. They were executed. Shot in the back of the head. I’ve seen it before… too often, as a matter of fact.”

“So you asked me what crimes the Colbert family was accused of. A fair question. But does it matter? Even if they had been axe murders on a rampage, did they deserve to be executed and then have their cadavers crucified to a wall?”

“No,” Bishop responded. “Nobody deserves that. But why? Why would a bunch of deputies and the sheriff do this? What possible motivation could they have for such cruelty?”

“I’ve got one more thing to show you, and then I’ll answer all of your questions. We have to trudge a few more miles, but I promise… if you want to know the truth, it is worth the effort.”

Bishop stared hard at the man next to him. “I want to know the truth, but your little mystery game is getting old, my friend. I don’t even know your name.”

“My name is Evan Condor.”

“Of Condor Pipe and Valve?”

“Yes, my father started that business. I was the plant manager before everything went to hell. Dad was grooming me to eventually take over so he could retire.”

“That plant is the main reason why we came to Brighton.”

“I know. We have our spies, Bishop. I know what Lew and those other criminals told you. That’s why I sought you out. I’m hoping you and those soldiers can set things straight… bring justice to my hometown.”

“Did you ever consider just striking up a conversation with me? Why all of this cloak and dagger shit?”

“Because I didn’t want to get you and your men killed. If Lew and his thugs even get a hint that you know what’s been going on around here, they’ll attack, and even more people will die. Besides, I wanted to judge you for myself. I had to make sure. There is something else I need to show you. Will you come with me?”

Bishop agreed, his mind trying desperately to process the influx of information.

The duo continued along the road, the blacktop surface making travel easy. After a few minutes, Bishop had to ask. “Aren’t you worried about someone coming down the road and catching us out in the open?”