C.O.T.V.H. (Book 1): Creation (9 page)

Talon nodded thoughtfully. “A convenient target. Once they turned him, they knew all that he knew. The layout of the house, weak entry points, everything they’d need to come in.”

“
You know Talon, it was strange.  I had the feeling that he was holding back.  There were several times he could have killed me.  Hell he probably could have snatched Jake off his bed and been feasting on him out in the yard and I never would have been the wiser ‘till it was too late. But he didn’t," John shook his head.  "It just doesn't add up."

Talon thoughtfully rubbed at the large bone handle of the knife strapped to his belt.  "Yes, very strange.  Why did they wait so long to attack? Once they had his knowledge of the house, they could have come on their own. Instead, they waited.  If the Makers had come first you and Jake would be dead right now.  Why send in a single solitary grunt?  And so much anger.  So much hate," Talon knelt down and picked up a picture of Julia and Jake that had been ripped in half. “It all seems so very . . . personal.”  

"I don't know what's going on here.” John shook his head.  “But I've got to find Julia.  I talked to Pam Williams.  She's a doc now, over at Midland Memorial.  She said Julia didn't make it to work last night.  And she sure as hell didn't make it back here.  So, the question remains.  Where is she?"

"I'll find out," Talon said, silently walking out of the house. John looked over the room for a few more minutes, staring at the remnants of the life he had tried so hard to make.  How many times had he curled up next to Julia in their bed and whispered in her ear how much he loved her? Now it lay ripped and broken hanging through the window. How many times had he rocked Jake to sleep as a baby in the rocking chair now in pieces against the wall?  In one night, they had brought it all crashing down around him. He'd make them pay for this.  Before it had all been a game. Who could score the most kills, collect the most fangs, or make the most money.  Now it was personal. Now it was war.  He would hunt them to the very last one if it killed him.

Saying goodbye to his old life, John walked back out of his house. He opened the door to his truck before he remembered the photo albums his wife had worked so painstakingly on over the last few months.  It was her latest hobby.  

John jogged back into the house and into their bedroom.  Sure enough, in the bottom drawer of their broken dresser sat two photo albums.  He leaned 
The Cleaner
 against the wall and pulled them both out.   He let out a sigh of relief. 
Finally a break!
They hadn't been trashed along with everything else.  He flipped the biggest one open. His relief turned to terror.  The pictures had been colored over in crayon.  Each and every picture with himself and Jake had been scribbled over with black crayon.  Julia's pictures were circled and colored with bright red hearts. "My God." he said, dropping the album to the floor.  He snatched the gun resting on the wall and ran through the house at a dead run.
I’ve got to find Julia!
Throwing caution to the wind, he burst out of the house and bowled right over two police officers. The three men crashed hard to the ground with John, still clutching
The Cleaner
, on top.

Chapter 5

Henry

Midland Police Department, Interrogation Room 2

July 31, 1994 4:22pm

Henry Anderson leaned back in his hard metal chair, trying to find just the right spot. His slightly overweight stomach hung a tad more over his belt than it had the month before.
Better cut back on the damn candy bars.
He thought to himself as he readjusted the black gun belt holding his Sig Sauer .357.  

Henry hated uncomfortable silences. If there was one thing consistent about him it was that, he loved to talk. He’d spoken his first word at seven months old, nearly fifty-nine years before, and he hadn’t shut up since. However, the man handcuffed to the table in front of him didn’t feel much like talking. He kept staring at the black clock ticking loudly on the wall. Even though the air conditioner rattled above, beads of sweat clung to his forehead.

Henry pulled the tan Stetson off his head and set it gently on the table, then wiped his own sweaty brow with a red handkerchief. With his other hand, he slicked back what little gray hair he had left on his balding head. “Whew! Damned if it ain’t hotter than the devil’s asshole shitting jalapeno peppers!”

The man looked at him for the first time and cracked a smile. “Never heard it put quite like that.”

“
Yeah well . . . that‘s my . . . I guess you’d call that my
specialty,
” Henry shoved the handkerchief back into his pants pocket then loosened the tie that was strangling his thick neck. “So . . . Mr. Bishop. Or do you prefer Mr. Griffin?”

“
Call me John,” he reached his hand out as far as the restraints would let him. “Guess your lab boys ran my prints already. At least they’re efficient.”

Henry, without hesitation reached out his own hand and shook John’s. “Quite a grip you got there, John. Calloused, looks like you've had a couple of broken fingers . . . I take it you're an oilfield man? Warm hands too. You know what they say about that don't you?"

John started to reply but was quickly interrupted as Henry noticed something else. "Well, well would you look at that,” he said eying the cuts and bruises on the big man's knuckles. "Who've you been fighting with, son?"

John jerked his hand away without answering. Henry gave him a warm smile. "John, my name is Lieutenant Henry Anderson. But you can call me Henry. Everyone does. Except my ex-wife of course, she doesn’t call at all,” he laughed heartily at his own bad joke.

“
Lieutenant?” John asked, sitting back as much as his shackled hands would let him. “I take it you’re not local MPD. Sheriff's department? Or DPS?”

“
No, ‘fraid not,” Henry reached into his pocket and set his badge made from a silver cinco peso on the table. Any other time it would be proudly displayed on his left breast pocket, just over his heart. Henry liked to give his suspects a little surprise, as expected John’s face grew more serious.

“
Texas Ranger? Well, well . . . I guess they called in the big guns."

Henry chuckled. "I was just passing through when I got a call from an old friend of mine. Imagine my surprise when Chief Roberts told me that none other than John Bishop was locked up in his jail. So I thought I'd drop in and say hello."

"Begging your pardon Ranger, but as far as I know I've never done anything to be on yours or anyone else's radar. What's your interest in me?"

"I guess you're just an innocent good ole boy that got picked up for no reason at all. Is that it?" Henry smirked. "Then why the alias John? If you're such an upstanding citizen with nothing to fear, why the fake ID? The fake social security number? You sure went the full nine yards for someone living on the up and up."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," John said, looking back up at the clock. "You know . . . I've always been curious about you Rangers. Even did some reading about you. Now if I’m not mistaken, you boys are quite a hard little group to get in too. Not just anyone can join.”

“
Oh it’s not that hard,” Henry waved the remark away with his hand. “There's a couple hundred of us.”

“
A couple hundred Rangers watching the whole state of Texas?”

“
It’s not too bad. We mostly handle big cases. Things that demand a little more attention than the local PD or Sheriff departments can muster. You know, serial killers, things of that nature,” he said, giving John a cold stare.

“
That so?” John chuckled. "I doubt you'd understand but I can relate better than you'd believe."

You twisted son of a bitch. Don't you dare compare yourself to me!
"Really? Why don't you tell me about it?"

John tapped his fingers on the table nervously then looked up at the clock again. “I have a better idea. How about you tell me what this is all about? I mean, like I said, a Texas Ranger seems a little much for such a small misunderstanding.”

Misunderstanding? I’ve been hunting you for a long time boy and now I’ve got you!
“We'll get to that. But I'd like to get to know you first. So tell me, John, with the big slump in the oilfield you must be having a hard time finding work, so what do you do for a living these days?”

“
Oh you know, this and that . . . say Ranger, you think you could have these cuffs loosened up a bit? Those boys I bumped into slapped them on a little tight.”

Henry laughed inwardly. “Bumped into? You mean those two officers you assaulted coming out of your house armed to the teeth with . . .” Henry held up a piece of paper with John's weapons listed for effect. He knew perfectly well, what he had been armed with. “One Winchester Model 1901 ten gauge shotgun, one .357 magnum . . . in your vehicle they found . . . one twelve gauge pump, one machete, three hundred rounds of ammunition. Do I need to go on? No Mr. Bishop, I think I'll keep those cuffs nice and tight for the time being.”

“
I didn’t assault anyone!” John slammed both handcuffed fists hard enough to shake the table. “I came out of my house with my own
legally
owned,
constitutionally
protected, firearms and these two assholes . . .” He motioned to the two-way mirror on the other side of the room. “Got in my way. It was an accident!”

Henry turned in his seat, staring at the mirror. “Sure, sure, I believe you, John. I really do. And in the state of Texas, it’s perfectly fine to carry your own firearms on your own property. But we both know those guns aren’t registered to you.”

John snorted, “Yeah well . . . I’m sure I’m not the only Texan with guns passed down to him. That ten gauge belonged to my great grandfather; his name is engraved on the stock. And the .357 was a gift from my father.”

“
Uh huh . . . your father you say? Well we'll get to that in a minute. Now . . . a 1901 . . . that’s a damn rare gun wouldn’t you say?”

“
Yeah I guess,” John bent down and scratched at his beard with his left hand. “Look Ranger, this is ridiculous. I’ve already told you that I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the victim in this. Someone broke into my house and completely destroyed the place! Poured some weird thick, black shit all over my kitchen floor.”

“
Is that the same person that cut up your arm? The ER Doc that patched you up said they looked like animal claw marks, and I don’t see any mountain lions running loose on the streets of Midland.”

“
I don’t know who they were,” John wiped the sweat from his forehead on the sleeve of his flannel shirt.

“
Tell me, John, where’s your wife? Where’s your son? What happened to them?"

John stared daggers through him. “What do you know about my wife?”

“
Your wife? What about your son?”

“
My son is fine,” he said, gritting his teeth. "Now answer my question.”

Henry sat there quietly, listening to the clock tick. Very slowly, he opened the file in front of him and held out three pictures for John to see. “We found her car off I-20, twelve maybe thirteen miles east of town. Passenger side door was completely ripped off its hinges.”

“
Was there blood in the car?” John asked, frantically staring at the pictures.

“
Tell you what, John,” Henry pulled the pictures away. “You answer all of my questions. Truthfully. And I’ll do whatever I can to help you. Tit for Tat. What do you say?”

“
Damn it, Ranger, you’re wasting my time!” John again slammed his fists repeatedly into the table. “She’s running out of time!”

The door opened and the two cops John had ‘assaulted’ stepped through. “Everything alright, Lieutenant?” The taller of the two asked.

“
Everything’s fine.” Henry said, not even glancing in their direction. “Thank you, officers.”

They nodded then hesitantly stepped back through the door. “Listen, son, you’re in a whole mess of trouble. So just tell me what I want to know and I’ll help you as much as I can.”

“
I’m not saying another damn word until I see a lawyer,” John leaned back, trying to remain calm. “I know my rights; you can’t hold me here without letting me consult an attorney.”

“
Well, the local boys busted a big drug ring this morning. So, the public defender's office is going to be busy for quite a while. That should give us at least a couple of hours to chat. Unless you can afford some high priced attorney, and from the look of that shack, you were living in I'm betting that's a no. Am I right?

John stared at him unmoving, his eyes hard and cold. “So back to my first question, why do you have an alias?”

John leaned his head back and rolled his eyes, “Like I said, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“
Try me,” Henry laid the handcuff key on the table between them. “Believe me son, I have heard it all. So tell me what I want to hear and I'll loosen up those cuffs."

The two sat their quietly for five more minutes, John continued to sweat profusely staring up at the clock. "You want to hear a story?" Henry asked, suddenly changing the subject. John sat there silently. "You ever heard of Lee Harvey Oswald, John F. Kennedy?"