Turn or Burn (18 page)

We drove off the ferry in Clinton and followed the GPS on Francesca’s phone toward the address Overalls had given us. Lush, dense forests quickly surrounded us. It was as remote as any place could be in the United States. You can drive miles without seeing anything but rolling hills and trees and a few mailboxes and farms.

About twenty minutes from Clinton, headed north, we found what we were looking for. A couple turns had put us into a deep forest with a long, winding two-lane road twisting even deeper inland. We passed an old mailbox with the correct number on it. We were there:
1523 Hounds Hollow.

We continued on, looking for a place to leave the Rover. It didn’t make sense to pull right up and introduce ourselves. If this guy was behind what was going on, he was not to be taken lightly.

Francesca turned right on a gravel road with no mailbox. We parked fifty yards down, so that we were off Hounds Hollow and not as obvious.

“I’m getting hungry,” I said. “You?”

“I’m okay. If you’d eat a little protein, you wouldn’t have to eat every ten minutes.”

“You know, you’re really starting to sound like me.”

“It’s annoying, isn’t it?”

“When you do it, yes.”

She closed the door and locked the Rover. The rain was still falling and dripping from the canopy high above. We left the road, cutting through the woods toward Jameson’s house. A bed of moss and leaves covered the forest floor; the leaves crackled under our feet. There was no way to be silent. But we didn’t think it mattered that much, unless Jameson’s friends at the woodshop had called and told him we were looking for him. But then why would they have given us his address? Matter of fact, his friend hadn’t just given it to us. He ran out after we’d left and chased us down. The guy seemed to be going out of his way to help us.

“So you’re going to be a Countess?” I asked, taking out my Ruger and checking the magazine. It was fully loaded. I pushed it back into the shoulder holster.

“That’s the plan.” She seemed exhausted by the subject.

I couldn’t help it, though. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, if you’re going to leave him, don’t do it all on my account. I could hang around you a little longer, but you don’t want to marry me. Believe me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. If I did leave him, it would have nothing to do with you. You were just a little side effect.”

“You really know how to make a guy feel special, don’t you? A complete drive-by is what you did to me.”

“More like a hit-and-run.”

“A come-and-go.”

She laughed at that one.

Just then, a sound came from my three o’clock. I jerked my head and we both moved behind a tree. I pulled my gun out and made a couple hand signals, indicating where I thought it was coming from. She agreed. We both cocked our pistols and knelt down low, watching and waiting.

More leaves cracking. I motioned for her to stay put and I moved forward, dashing to the next tree toward the sound. I took cover with my back against the tree, then turned and looked. Nothing. I did it again.

More movement. I raised my gun and rolled around the tree.

“Deer,” I said. “It’s a deer.”

A small doe was working her way through the forest, eating berries off a plant. At the sound of my voice, she disappeared like a bullet from a gun.

Francesca and I both took deep breaths and continued on, moving further and further into the woods, the tall trees swaying, dripping water all around us.

“Hey,” I interrupted. “You smell a fire?”

She stopped and stuck her nose in the air. “Faintly.”

Shortly after, we reached Jameson’s long driveway. We took a hard left to follow it without getting too close. After about a quarter mile, a cabin came into view. Nothing special at all. Couldn’t have been more than four rooms total. Smoke rose from a brick chimney. Three cars occupied the driveway. And you guessed it. One was a green two-door, a Honda. Just like Jess had told us. There was also a beat up Mercedes that had rusted above the wheel wells and a Dodge Ram truck.

We both saw the dogs at the same time, and stopped and watched them for a while. Two Dobermans were pacing back and forth in the front. They were tied up.

Approaching more cautiously now, working our way toward the back of the house to avoid the dogs, we got close enough to be able to see through the window. One man was standing in the kitchen washing his hands. I motioned for Francesca to move to the other side of the house, and she went on her way. I rested behind a large tree and pulled out my Ruger. I twisted around to see Francesca working her way from tree to tree and then disappearing on the other side.

That’s when I heard a woman’s scream coming from inside the house. The dogs started barking, and someone opened up the front door and shut them up.

I started moving closer to the back of the cabin.

The screaming came again and the dogs resumed barking. I ran to the outside of the cabin and dropped just under a window, my back to the wall. I looked around and didn’t see anyone. The woman screamed again and then broke into a cry.

I rose up, turned around, and peered through the glass. I’ll never forget what I saw.

I was looking in from the far side of the main room. On the other side, maybe twenty feet away, there was a woman sprawled out on the dining room table. She was naked and lying face-up. Her hands and feet were tied to each corner, the rope disappearing behind the table. Three men were there: two watching from one end as another pulled a steel fireplace tool out of the fire. He looked in my direction and I ducked. It was Jameson Taylor, I was sure of it. Thick glasses resting on that cauliflower nose. A thick white beard. A green button-down vest over a blue flannel shirt.

I stood up a couple seconds later and saw his back was to me as he moved toward the woman. He wore heavy black boots, and I could hear his steps as he moved. Then I noticed the red glow at the end of the iron in his hand. He was going to brand her. Certainly it was the same mark—the triskelion—we’d seen on the two dead women, Lucy Reyes and Erica Conway.

No way I was going to let that happen. I stood and started running for the door around the corner. Just as I began to round the house, I caught the blur of a wooden plank coming my way.

Then I shook and pulled, trying to get a better view of my surroundings. There were two of them. Not the same men I’d seen inside the cabin. One held my gun in his free hand. I shook some more, and he hit me in the side of the head with it, knocking me back into a daze.

“You calm yourself down,” he said in a Canadian accent. He wore a golf hat and a beige shirt.

“Where is she?” I mumbled, jerking my arms.

He hit me again, much harder this time, knocking me out for a moment.

I came to with a raging headache. We had reached the steps at the front of the cabin. The dogs were barking again. The Canadian snapped at them and they went silent. The men lifted me up the stairs, my heels hitting every step as we went up. They pulled me through the door. There were five of them now. No one was talking. They dropped me on the bare kitchen floor, and I tried to sit up. One of them put a foot on my shoulder and pushed me back down. I wiped the side of my head and blood coated my fingers.

“We’ll fix that,” someone said, before showing himself.

It was Jameson Taylor. He appeared above me, grinning. I saw that the beard covered up some deep acne scarring. He was not a pretty man, to put it lightly. He put his big black heavy boot on my chest. “We were expecting you.”

Expecting me?
Had the man in overalls from the woodshop given us this address on purpose? What a fool I’d been! I twisted and looked around. All five of them were staring down at me. At that point, my only hope was Francesca.
Where was she?

With his boot still on my chest, Jameson reached into the pocket of his vest and dialed a number. “We’ve got him,” he said. A pause. “Agreed. See you in a little while.” He hung up. Pushing another couple buttons on his phone, he lifted it, framed me on the screen, and took a picture.

As Jameson removed his foot, the Canadian took a handful of my hair and said, “You make a move, you get kicked in the face.”

“You’re all dead men,” I said.

Jameson began to laugh. “Harper Knox. You have no idea what’s going on here, do you? You’ve no idea what’s about to happen.”

“I don’t imagine we’re off to a church picnic,” I mumbled.

He grinned. “Not quite.” Then he looked back at the Canadian. “Tie him up.”

Before I could resist, two of them had me on my stomach and were tying my hands together. I grunted as one of them pushed me hard into the floor.
Where the hell was Francesca?
I heard Jameson tell two of the men that their work was done, and then the door opened and closed as they left. There were now just three of us.

They lifted me up under my arms, and that’s when I saw the woman. She was still tied to the table. I’d forgotten about her. She wasn’t moving.

The two men walked me to a chair that had been pulled away from that very same table. They pushed me down onto the seat, and I knew I had to make a move. I couldn’t pull my hands free, but I kicked my feet out and rolled to the ground. Before I could get a kick in, the Canadian jerked me back up by the arm, threw me back in the chair, and locked his arm around my neck, cutting off my circulation. As I fought to breathe, the other one wrapped a rope around my chest and the back of the chair. After several times around, he tied it tight. The Canadian let go and I inhaled gulps of air. He knelt and tied my ankles to the chair legs, tightening the rope enough to stop the flow of blood to my feet. Then the other one pressed a strip of tape across my mouth, forcing me to stabilize my breath through my nose.

I began to gain control of my mind again and looked around. Jameson had walked over to the naked woman. Her limbs were still tied to the corners of the table, and she was unconscious. She had long blonde hair, a tall forehead, and a face covered in makeup that her tears had melted. She was a plumper woman on the top and bottom but had a tight waist. Her breasts fell to either side of her rib cage, and her thick legs were flattened against the wood. Jameson stood on the other side of the table from me. He gently stroked her face. Once the men had made sure I wasn’t going anywhere, Jameson looked at them. “All set?”

They nodded.

“Good. No more interruptions.”

He slapped the woman’s face, attempting to wake her. She didn’t move. He leaned down very close to her face, breathing on her, whispering to her. He slapped her again. “Wake up!” he yelled.

Her eyelids lifted a little.

Jameson brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes and whispered in her ear, “It’s time, my darling. Time to wake up after a lifetime of sleeping. It all begins here.”

Her terrified eyes opened wide and she began to plead. Jameson threw a hand over her mouth. Still speaking very calmly and quietly, he said, “Now what did I tell you about that? Don’t make a peep, okay?”

She didn’t move. Her eyes couldn’t have been any wider.

“Okay?” he said again.

She nodded. He lifted his hand from her mouth and she said, “Okay.”

Jameson stood back up and walked toward the fireplace. The poor woman tilted her head and we made eye contact. When she saw the tape over my face and the rope binding my chest, she gasped.

I pushed myself up and pulled with my hands, trying to break free of the rope. I wasn’t even close, but I ended up knocking the chair over, and going down with it.

A fist came flying into my jaw, furthering the trauma to my brain. “We won’t have that again, eh,” the Canadian said, lifting me and the chair back up.

There was absolutely nothing I could do, and I had very little idea of what was happening, but there was a pretty good chance this woman was about to be burned.

Jameson came back into view, holding the same branding iron he had earlier. It had thick padding at the end so it wouldn’t burn his hands; it looked like rags had been taped around it. The tip was glowing. “Mr. Knox, don’t let me see that again.”

Upon eyeing the glowing iron, the woman began pleading again. “No, no. Please. I’ll do anything you ask. Just…no. Don’t hurt me.”

“Shhhh…” Jameson whispered. And in a creepy, slow, quiet speech, Jameson’s voice took over the room. “Compared to burning in the fires of hell for all eternity, this won’t hurt at all, Ms. Dorachek. Not one bit. I’m saving your life right now.” He had the iron in his left hand, and he held it high in the air. With his right hand, he reached into a bowl that was sitting on the windowsill. His fingers came up dripping with water. He threw his hand at the woman, splattering water across her body. “Let this holy water cleanse your soul and remove the darkness that has taken hold.”

He reached for more water and threw it at her again. His voice grew louder and shook with vibrato. “Dear Lord Father, cleanse this poor girl in the Holy Spirit and send the darkness away. I baptize you in the name of the Holy Spirit.” She was crying uncontrollably. He dipped his hand in again and threw it at her. “From this day forward, you will no longer walk the path of a sinner. You will join us in the coming days as we fight our battle against the sinners.” And again. His hand went to the bowl, he cast his hand toward her, and water splashed across her face and body.

He lifted the iron.

“No!” the other guy who’d been quiet suddenly shouted. “Please stop!”

I looked over. He was much younger, maybe not even twenty. Looked like he’d walked right out of Sunday School. His words lacked any conviction, any sense of strength. His baby face and curly hair made it even worse. “Please, Jameson. This is not what God would want. You know that.” His pleading sounded nearly absurd.