The Travelling Man (17 page)

As was the way with small towns, religion had traditionally lay at the heart of its people and that was exactly how Bruce demanded it should be. Sunday services had always been mandatory and those that didn’t attend were often shunned and looked down upon by the rest of the congregation. But St Michael’s held a firm place in the heart of the town. The ancient bells were the stuff of legend as once, when the town was just in its infancy, a great sandstorm had blown through Granton threatening to drown them all. There had been no real buildings, save for the church, and the makeshift camp had blown away. The early residents would have been lost in the desert if not for the bells. St Michael’s had rung out loudly, calling its people to safety and guiding them through the storm. The modern day ancestors had taken shelter and even now the bells were still seen as a sign of unity and safety. Once a year to mark the start of the annual carnival the bells of St Michaels rang out loud and proud to remind Granton of their past and relevance.

He wandered out into the church’s grounds and looked down upon Granton. It was a good town, full of good and decent people. The mine could produce a few trouble makers, especially on a Friday or Saturday night, but on the whole they were a solid unit that looked after each other and were protected by God.

His features crinkled slightly as the thought of the last few days intervened. He found it hard to reconcile death and murder with his people. The outside world had invaded their borders with flashy black SUV’s and brightly colored news vans with coiffed reporters looking to push their cameras into the faces of decent God-loving townsfolk. The whole thing seemed like a bad dream, one that he hoped they would all wake up from soon.

He had known Harlan Harris from the man’s position on several of the town’s committees. He was a quiet and polite man, always willing to offer his help and always a useful member in many situations. Poor Davey Mackie had been afflicted by the demon drink, a disease that plundered so many souls. He hadn’t known Marshal Dinkins very well as the man wasn’t much for the church but he found it hard to believe that Granton could have produced the monster that he was accused of being. He also remembered poor Becky James, one of the town’s few real success stories: a  beautiful and talented young woman cut down in her prime by the black-hearted desire that had lurked in Dean Singer. The landlord had been a man without much in the way of a positive reputation and his actions were the easiest to believe in all of this mess.

Bruce felt a shudder creep through his bones and tickle him somewhere deep inside. He stared out over the horizon and down towards Granton. The sleepy peaceful town had always felt like home to him, a constant steadying influence in his life, an anchor of reality. But suddenly he had the strangest sensation that he was looking down on an alien settlement, a town that had been body-snatched overnight and no one had noticed. Everything seemed the same; every roof and color of every building was the same on the surface, and yet in that moment he felt like he was looking upon a stranger’s face, a face that was all smiles and promise on the surface, but was dark and cruel underneath. He sensed that they were all in need of God’s love, now more than ever. His sadness was mixed with a deep seated anger that boiled below the surface. There were days when he thought that too many of Granton’s children had been spared the rod and were in need of correcting.

“These are trying times indeed, Father, are they not?”

Bruce turned towards the voice, startled by the man’s presence. The accent was clipped English and Bruce was surprised at its exotic nature in Granton. The man was dressed in a fairly smart three piece suit that had seen better days but still defied logic given the desert climate. Despite the heat he looked cool and calm. “I’m sorry?” Bruce asked in response.

“Such a pretty little town,” the man said, staring down at Granton. “But I can’t help but sense an emptiness of spirit. Such a shame for a God-fearing man such as yourself, Father, I’d imagine. It must be a terrible burden to have to instill faith in the face of modern opposition. There were days when the church held effortless sway over mankind without challenge or dissention in the ranks. Worshippers fell to their knees before a man of God, a mortal man such as yourself deigned to be his word on earth, to lead and shape your community.”

Bruce stood by in silence as the new man seemed to vocalize his own thoughts perfectly.

“I think that you’re probably wasted here, Father. You shouldn’t have to fight so hard to save them; they should be on their knees begging for your help. You shouldn’t have to chase them for their own salvation,” the new man said.

“You must be new in town,” Bruce said, trying to find some composure. “Father Bruce Luther,” he said, introducing himself.

“Grange, Gilbert Grange,” the man said politely, producing a piece of white paper from inside an old dark leathery case. “And I think that I might be able to help you with your problem, Father. In fact, you might just say that I could have the answer to your prayers, so to speak.”

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For the first time since they’d swooped into town, Cassie found herself wishing that the FBI were still there. She had called into the station, only for Jeanne to inform her that the Feds had left en masse, without a word to anyone. Even Harper had left without the professional courtesy of informing her of the progress of his investigation. Kevin was apparently royally pissed at the snub and she couldn’t help but share his feelings.

The fire had quickly burned itself out in front of her. The high licking flames had soon devoured anything of note and Cassie knew that there was little point in calling out the Fire Service on an emergency call. Most of the fire fighters in Granton were voluntary and it would be pointless to raise the alarm when the fire was confined to the old Winnebago and there was only the inflammable desert floor beyond.

Her professional mind ticked over with efficient ease and she probed gently for any feelings of shock that might get in the way. It had been only the third time that she had fired her weapon, and the second that she had hit someone, but the first that someone had died as a result. She regretted the action but it had been a necessary one, and one that Bud Burrell had brought down upon himself.

Whatever chemicals had been in the rusty camper van had burned up with vicious hunger and she could see that there would only be trace amounts of anything left behind. She was angry that whatever link there had been between Harlan Harris and the rolling lab had been violently severed. If Harlan had been in business with Bud, there may be no way of corroborating the fact, although she knew full well that there was no chance that a man like Bud Burrell could have been working alone. Bud may have been chemically capable of producing a product, but there was no way that he would have the business acumen to run such an operation.

She was pondering what it all meant when she noticed the tracks on the ground leading out past the remains of the van. Her father had been an avid hunter and they had bonded over the pursuit. While she had never enjoyed the killing end of the sport, she had been fascinated by the tracking of the hunt itself.

The first thing that grabbed her about the faint tracks as she knelt down to take a closer look was that although there were two lines of prints, only one had been walking; the other had been dragged. She momentarily forgot about the shouldering Winnebago and started to follow the tracks out into the desert.

It didn’t take her long as, although the marks on the ground were several days old, the desert floor out here was more red mud than sand and whatever had been dragged was heavy.

She spotted the hole in the ground quickly and walked to the edge. The rectangular opening looked large enough to bury a body and she could think of no other purpose for it. A lot of the red earth had been flung aside and she wondered who would have gone to the trouble of digging a grave only to dig it up again so soon after.

She jumped down into the hole to get a closer look. She knew that she was contaminating the scene but there were stronger forces at work in her than procedure.

Once in the grave, she peered up at the side and saw with horror that there were gouged markings in the red clay. Someone hadn’t been dug up; someone had dug their way out.

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“Well, my dear, why don’t you just shut your fat ugly mouth and do as you’re told,” Bobby Cohen grinned happily.

His wife, Cora, stared at him like she was wondering if this was, in fact, some kind of weird realistic dream that she couldn’t wake up from. “What did you say?” she spluttered.

“Oh, I think that you heard me just fine,” he smiled proudly. “Pancakes and a big ass stack of them to boot.”

Bobby sat at the dining room table upon the throne of his castle, a king of his own domain. His veins surged with his newfound confidence and he could feel the power pumping through his blood. His new friend, Mr Grange, had indeed been as good as his word and Bobby was now a lion and his courage was restored.

“I really don’t know who you think that you are talking to, Robert, but I’m sure that it cannot possibly be me!” Cora snapped.

Bobby pushed back his chair and stood up from the table without speaking; words were so meaningless now. The sound of the slap was loud in the room and the look of shock on his wife’s face was priceless. His only regret was that he hadn’t done it sooner.

“You hit me,” Cora whispered as her hand clutched her reddening cheek.

“I know, genius! I was there,” he grinned, feeling finer than he had ever done before.

He watched as she shrank away from him and that became his new finest feeling. His hand still throbbed with the power and he wondered just what else he might be up to. His whole marriage had been one of Cora’s convenience and he had a lifetime of bitter resentment stored up in his cellar.

He picked up a fork from the table and weighed it gently in his hand. Cora’s eyes caught on the glinting stainless steel and then the considered expression on his face. She might have moved faster but the alien look on his face slowed her thoughts down.

He stepped forward and used all of his weight and strength to drive the fork down into her shoulder. There was a brief moment, almost comical in nature, as she looked from him to the fork embedded in her shoulder and then back up again. It was almost comical until she started screaming.

“Enough!” he barked commandingly and she stopped.

“Please, Bobby,” she wept terrified.

He cocked his head slightly at the appearance of the salty discharge on her red cheek and he realised that in 20 years of marriage he had never once seen her cry before, not even when her father had been bitten by the cancer bug and it had rotted him from the inside out over no more than 6 weeks. The sight of her cowering was quite something to behold and he started to feel a long dormant tingling below the beltline. The bedroom had never figured very highly in Cora’s ideas of what a successful marriage should entail and he had long ago stopped trying to argue any differently.

He reached down and cupped her chin with one hand; he then took hold of her soft breast with his other and squeezed it painfully through her jumper, his stimulation only further enhanced by her soft moan of pain.

He was a God among men now and everything was for his taking. He was a better man than he had ever known and his whole body shook with a power and confidence which overrode any sense of morality. That particular code was for others and not meant for him, not anymore; now, he would simply take what was his.

He casually pulled open a drawer in the cabinet by the side of him and drew out a long serrated carving knife which had been set aside for special occasions. He honestly couldn’t think of a more special one.

He gripped the knife in one hand and used the other to unbuckle his pants and soon the house was filled with her screams.

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Jim Lesnar watched the deputy from a safe distance. Tom Lassiter was his name and Jim knew little about the man. That was, until his new friend and benefactor had provided him with a detailed dossier about the cop.

Lesnar had never had a real friend before; he had paid plenty for professional company, but even the best trained women were still just acting and they both knew it. Mr Grange, and he still afforded the man the formal moniker, was showing him what real friendship felt like. Lesnar had always known that he was special, a little different than his peers perhaps, but special nevertheless.

He remembered once, during his college days, when he’d been cramming for an important test suddenly being struck by the very powerful image in his mind that none of this mattered. He had pushed his books aside and known in that instant that he had been meant for better things, things that didn’t require perfect test scores, only a pure heart. He had set aside his books on that day and limped his way through, gathering the bare minimum grades necessary. Even when he’d finally opened the mine, he had not found the satisfaction of a life fulfilled on that day. He had assumed that when the money started rolling in and those Granton residents that had mocked and poured scorn upon his misshaped body during high school had come to him with hands out for a job, that he would feel some sense of success, but it had been an empty sensation. He now realised that he had been waiting for Mr Grange all along. This was his destiny, this was his calling, and now it was so close.

Deputy Lassiter wound his way home slowly from the grocery store, a small white plastic bag swinging in his hands and various green leaves poking free of the top. The cop was obviously healthy in nature and fit looking, although Lesnar was glad that he wasn’t tackling the other deputy just yet. While Lassiter was trim and in shape, Kevin Bridges was a tank and Lesnar hoped that Mr Grange would have a plan for the other deputy that relied on being a safe distance away.