The Sword of God - John Milton #5 (John Milton Thrillers) (24 page)

Lundquist relaxed a little. Seth was his brigade captain. He had years in the army, too. If he said he was going to do something, he did it, and it stayed done. He was married to Magrethe, another solid recruit to the cause, another person upon whom he knew that he could rely. Lars Olsen was their son. Lundquist knew he should tell Seth that their boy was dead, killed by Milton, but he didn’t want to distract him from the tasks that he needed him to do now. It would keep. Better to do it face to face.

“Did you call the men?”

“As many as we could. The phones are down again, cell towers and landlines this time. We must’ve gotten around half of them before it happened. I’m about to go and get the rest. They’ve started to arrive. We’re putting them in the other barn. Where are you?”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Out.”

MALLORY STANTON was in the back of a van. It was only medium sized and it was cramped, barely enough space for her, Arty, and Ellie Flowers, plus the two bodies that they had loaded inside. Ellie was next to Mallory, her head resting on her right shoulder. She could feel the woman’s breath warm against her throat. Arty was opposite her, slumped across the floor of the van. She could hear the rattle of his breathing. Both of them were unconscious.

Mallory didn’t want to look to her left. One of the dead bodies was pressed up against her. She didn’t know whether it was Sturgess or Sellar, but, whoever it was, his body was close enough that it slumped closer to her whenever they took a corner. The storm was raging outside and the lightning, when it came, blasted a moment of silver light between the cracks in the rear doors. Mallory had looked, once, and had seen the shape of the bodies, one piled atop the other, the fingers of an upturned hand brushing against her ankle.

She hadn’t looked again.

She heard a deep groan from the darkness.

“Arty!”

Her brother had rushed Morten Lundquist after Ellie had been struck, and he had been jabbed, hard, with the butt of the rifle. The blow had knocked him out, and he still hadn’t come around.

“Arty!”

He groaned again, but he didn’t lift his head.

“Mallory?” Ellie’s voice was weak and thin, shot through with pain.

“I’m here.”

Mallory felt Ellie lift her head from her shoulder.

“Are you okay?” she said, her voice little more than a raspy croak.

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“Your brother?”

“They hit him. He was knocked out.”

She didn’t respond.

“They hit you, too.”

“You don’t say.”

“How do you feel?”

She heard Ellie exhale. “Not good. Like my head’s about to split.”

The handcuffs that they had used were loose on her wrists, and Mallory had thought that, if she tried hard enough, she might be able to force her way out of them. She had strained as hard as she could, but in the end, all she had done was to turn scrapes and abrasions into cuts that had quickly become bloody. She could feel a single warm droplet as it ran down the inside of her wrist into her palm.

“There’s an opening up there,” Ellie said. “Can you see where we’re going?”

There were no proper windows in back and the narrow slit in the panel that separated them from the driver was high up. Mallory tried to stand. She wasn’t quite tall enough to see through it and her balance was impeded by having her hands secured behind her back. She was quickly thrown against the side of the van as they took a sharp corner. She overbalanced and dropped down onto the bodies behind her. She shrieked, throwing herself off of them.

“Shit, shit, shit!”

“Mallory?”

“Sellar and Sturgess. They’re dead.”

“What?”

“Milton killed them. He did it like it was nothing. You didn’t see?”

“I was pretty out of it. They’re back there?”

“Yes.” Mallory slid away from them as much as she could and rested with her arms pressed between her back and the side of the vehicle. “What happened to you?”

“They jumped me at the station,” Ellie said. “The deputy—”

“Lundquist.”

“He shot the sheriff.”

Mallory hugged her knees to her chest.

“Where’s Milton?” Ellie asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You better tell me what happened.”

She breathed in and out, composing her thoughts.

She told her about Leland turning up at the RV and trying to get her to come to the station.

She told her about Michael Callow.

She told her about how Milton had appeared out of nowhere, how he had killed Sellar and Sturgess just like
that
, as easy as shelling peas. She told her how she had watched him bury her old kitchen knife in Sturgess’s gut, yanking it all the way up even as he turned to face Leland, taking his gun from him and shooting Sellar in the head, like it was something he did every day.

She told her how Callow had grabbed her, how Milton had aimed the pistol, and how she had known that he was going to fire.

And then how Milton had been shot.

By Morten Lundquist.

What was happening to them?

What had they run into?

“They didn’t kill him?”

She shook her head. “Shot him in the arm. He got the RV started and drove off. The deputy and Callow went after him.”

“He’s gone?”

She nodded. “You think he’s abandoned us?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t.”

Mallory squeezed her legs tighter, crushing them against her chest. She wished she had the same confidence.

“Who’s driving?” Ellie asked.

“Morris Finch. He’s a plumber. This is his van.”

“
Mallory?
” The voice was faint and befuddled. “
Mallory?
”

“I’m here, Arty!”

Lightning flashed, and she saw his head move as he slowly brought it up.

“Are you okay?”

“My head,” he mumbled.

“You got your ticket punched. You feel okay?”

“Dizzy.”

“Stay down there, then. It’ll clear.”

“Eric and Reggie are dead.”

“They got what was coming to them, Arty,” Mallory said, iron in her voice.

“Is Ellie here?”

“I’m here.”

Mallory heard her brother shuffle around in Ellie’s direction.

“Deputy Morten hit you, Ellie.”

“I’m okay. I’ll live.”

“Why did he hit you? She wasn’t doing nothing, was she, Mallory?”

“No, she wasn’t.”

“I don’t understand. Where are we?”

Mallory composed herself. She knew she would need to stay calm or else he would freak, and that would just make things worse. But she would have to say something. “We’re in the back of Morris Finch’s van.”

“Why?”

“Michael Callow and Tom Chandler are angry with us.”

“And Deputy Lundquist.”

“Yes, and Deputy Lundquist. They’re taking us someplace. I think they want to talk to us.”

“Why are they angry with us? Is it because of Mr. Milton?”

“Yes,” she said. “I think it might be. Just stay there, okay? It’ll all be straightened out soon.”

“And then we can go home?”

“Yes,” she said, trying very hard to hide the fear in her voice.

Ellie spoke for her. “That’s right, Arthur. It’ll all be straightened out, and then we can go home. Mallory, do you have a cellphone?”

“No, and it wouldn’t matter. The storm’s taken the network out.”

“Really?”

“Was on the news.”

“Maybe it’s fixed now. It’s worth a try. Do you think Sellar and Sturgess might have one?”

Her stomach flipped. “You want me to look?”

“I don’t know how easy it’d be for me to get over there.”

She swallowed and turned around so that her back was facing the two dead bodies. By leaning backwards a little she was able to reach over to them and pat them down. She felt something in the breast pocket of the body nearest her, reached her hand inside, and pulled out a Motorola cellphone. She turned her back to Ellie and backed into the middle of the van so that she could pass the phone across.

“Thanks.”

Mallory saw a faint green glow from the other side of the van. Ellie had activated the cellphone, and the light from the screen glowed.

“No signal.”

“It’s the whole state north of Wausau.”

“That’s great.”

The van rumbled onwards, taking them farther away from town and into the countryside beyond.

Ellie used the light from the cellphone to look around the inside of the van. Mallory saw racks of plumbing equipment above them, pipes and sockets and screws, and then, before she could stop herself, the confusion of arms and legs that was Sturgess and Sellar.

“Oh, God.”

“Mallory, I need you to do something for me,” Ellie said.

She closed her eyes, and she could still see them.

“Mallory.”

“Yes?”

“If I give you a number, will you be able to remember it?”

She opened her eyes and stared across at the faint outline of her brother. “Arty can. He’s great with numbers.”

That was an understatement. Arty had plenty of problems. But if there was one thing he was good at, it was remembering things. Mallory remembered the time when she had read aloud a page of the Truth telephone directory and he had recited back the first hundred names, just like that. The doctors they had seen when he was a little boy said that was one of the things that people with his condition could sometimes do.

“Arty,” she said, “I need you to pay special attention, okay? Agent Ellie needs you to remember a number. Can you do that for her?”

“Sure, Mallory.”

“It’s
very
important.”

“What is it? I’ll remember it. I’m good with numbers.”

“I know you are. Go on, Ellie.”

“Okay. Ready? 313-338-7786.”

Mallory recognised it as a Detroit telephone number. “Have you got it?” she asked him.

“Sure,” he said, as if what he had been asked to do, and the circumstances in which he had been asked to do it, were perfectly normal for him.

“Repeat it to me.”

“313-338-7786.”

“Good.”

“What do I need the number for?” he asked her.

“That’s my partner’s number. Agent Clayton. I don’t know where they’re taking us, but maybe there’s a chance one of us can get away. If we can, we need to call him.”

“The phones are down…”

“Maybe they’ll be fixed then. He’ll be able to help us.”

“Okay, Ellie. 313-338-7786. I got it.”

Ellie said, “You too, Mallory. You need to remember it too.”

“313-338-77—”

“7786,” Arty finished for her as she stalled.

“313-338-7786. Got it.” She tried to fix it in her mind, but she knew that she would forget.

“Well done,” Ellie said. “Now. When we get to where we’re going, I want you to do whatever they tell you. No attitude. No lip. Got it?”

“Yes,” Mallory said.

“Arty?”

“He’ll be fine.”

They were quiet. Mallory might not be able to see where they were going, but that didn’t mean she was helpless. She made sure she concentrated on everything else: how long they were travelling, the sounds that she could hear, the terrain that they passed over. The surface of the road was smooth for what she estimated was the first five minutes. Then, they rolled over a bump and then another bump, and she recognised the sound that the tyres on her car made when she crossed the railroad at the north end of town. They proceeded on asphalt for, she guessed, another ten minutes. When the van slowed down, the red taillights glowed through faulty housings, their light leaking into the back. They slowed right down, the axle creaking as they negotiated bumpy terrain.

“What happened to Mr. Milton?” Arty asked.

“He left,” Mallory said.

“But he’ll come back for us?”

“I don’t know.”

THE VAN continued along the rough track for ten minutes, and then it swung around sharply to the right, the brake lights flashed again, and they slowed to a stop. The engine was turned off.

“Where are we?” Arty asked.

“I’m not sure.”

Mallory reflexively tensed her arms against the cuffs, but there was no give there, and all the effort did was make her wrists sore again.

She heard a door at the front of the van open and the sound of feet dropped down onto the ground. She heard footsteps and then voices.

A woman’s voice: “You want to tell me what’s going on? Seth says we got a problem.”

“In a minute, Magrethe,” answered a man.

“Seth says you’ve got two dead bodies in the back plus the two Stanton kids.”

“And an FBI agent. So, yes, Magrethe, I’d say Seth was right, we do got a problem.”

“Where’s Morten now?”

“Busy. Says he’ll be here presently. Probably on his way now.”

“Then you better tell me what in God’s name is going on tonight.”

“The agent and another man went up to the mine and arrested Michael and the boys.”

“What other man?”

“There was an Englishman in town, got into a brawl at Johnny’s a couple nights ago. Mallory Stanton set the whole thing up, the whole expedition into the woods. She roped the guy and the agent into it.”

“We know anything about him?”

“Name’s Milton. That’s all.”

“Where is he now?”

“Morten’s got it in hand. He won’t be a problem.”

“But he brought the boys back?”

“That’s right. Morten heard it over the radio, went to the jail, and busted them out.”

Mallory recognised the man’s voice. It was Morris Finch.

“What do you mean, he busted them out?”

“What I said: he busted them out. Lester was there. He shot him.”

“He
shot
Lester?”

“No choice, Magrethe. What else was he going to do? If he did nothing, everything would’ve gone to shit. Everything we’ve been working for. The militia, God's word. You reckon those boys would’ve been able to keep their mouths shut if the FBI had gotten hold of them?
Shit
, no. Not because they ain’t loyal, but because they ain’t the smartest. There was no choice. It was Lester or us, Magrethe. Morten did what he had to do.”

Magrethe. Seth. Mallory thought hard about that. Magrethe and Seth. The only Seth she knew had a farm out on the edge of town and, the more she thought about it, she was sure that Seth’s wife’s name began with an M.