They (35 page)

“What happened then?” Mike asked.

“They hung out, did some partying,” Tom Hoffman drained his coffee cup. “Clint told me that even though he felt better about declining the offer, he still felt that he had taken a part in something that was both big and dangerous. He said that David later told him he felt the same way. They actually left the motel early that night but before they left, Mark pulled them aside, said that they would be coming to town later this year and he’d give them a call. Well, Clint and David hadn’t given these guys any clue as to where they lived. The only places they’d gone to together were the motel, Nino’s, and driving around various parts of Lititz, mostly by the town square or the library. Clint started rattling off a fake phone number when Mark kinda grinned at him and said, ‘you can’t fool me, Clint. Your number’s 626-7367.’ And Clint, he said he couldn’t help it, but he felt himself go faint. Said he probably looked as pale as a ghost. He said Dave was literally quivering beside him with fear.

“They kinda stood there for a minute, facing each other. Then Clint somehow got his composure and said, ‘yeah, that’s right. What was I thinking?’ And he and David started backing out of the motel. Mark just kinda stood there grinning at them and told them that when they came back he would know where to find them. And then he rattled off their addresses and Clint and David just kinda nodded along and said, ‘yeah, come look us up,’ and then they got out of there.”

“So in a very subtle way, these two characters were threatening Clint and David,” Reverend Powell mused.

“Yes,” Tom Hoffman said. He looked at Mike, some of the hardness in his features creeping back. “Clint said he and David left the room and wouldn’t speak about the incident again. Clint tried to bring it up to David when word got out that those skinned dogs were found, but David refused to speak of it. He said he didn’t want to hear about it again. Said he was waiting for school to end so he could get out of Lititz for good.”

“Did he?” Mike asked.

“Yeah, in a way,” Tom Hoffman said. “Two weeks ago he got picked up in Lancaster on a B&E. His family hasn’t been able to raise bail, so he’s sitting in Lancaster County Jail.”

“And Clint?” Mike asked.

“He’s gone,” Tom Hoffman said. His lips were pressed together in a thin, bloodless grimace. “For a while there after I questioned him, I thought he’d skipped town, but I stopped by his house and checked on him a few days after I talked to him. He hadn’t left his house. And he refused to talk to me. I had to talk to his father through the screen door. His father actually sounded pleased at Clint’s behavior and saw no cause for alarm. He seemed to think his son has turned over a new leaf.” His lips turned upward in a slight smile. “Says all the boy does is sit in his room and read the Bible.”

“The Lord is working on him,” Reverend Powell said. “May He protect Clint in His loving grace.”

“He’s afraid to run into these characters again,” Frank said.

Tom Hoffman nodded. “That’s what I think.”

“Did the behavior get worse with the news of Maggie Walter’s death?” Mike asked.

“I asked Mr. Jackson that a few days after Maggie’s body was found,” Tom Hoffman said. “Don’t ask me why, but I had a hunch. Ben Jackson said that when Clint heard about Maggie’s death he went straight to his room and closed the door. He said he heard his son in there talking to himself, like he was crying or pleading with somebody. He said he tried knocking on Clint’s door to see what the trouble was but Clint wouldn’t come out. Said he was too scared. When Ben asked what he was scared of, Clint mumbled something. Ben thought what Clint mumbled was, ‘all my fault.’ ”

“Would Ben Jackson be the type of man to think this to mean that his son was implicating himself in Maggie Walter’s murder?” Mike Peterson asked.

“That’s what I thought,” Tom Hoffman said. “But I didn’t ask him that. I asked Ben what he thought this meant and he just shrugged and said, ‘aw, you know kids. He’s probably thinking I’m bugging him for something and he just snapped. He’ll get over it.’ ”

“Did he?” Mike asked.

“I don’t know.” Tom Hoffman looked at all four men gathered around the table. “I headed over there the next day and Ben told me that his son had suddenly packed a few days worth of clothes, took all the money in the house, and skipped town. He and his wife were just debating whether they should phone the police and report a theft when Mrs. Jackson realized it was probably their son that had taken the money.”

“Has Clint been in contact with his parents since he left?” Frank asked.

“No.” Tom Hoffman looked grave again. “He hasn’t. But get this.” He leaned forward. “Clint’s girlfriend comes up to me later that day. She tracked me down at the station actually, and told me she had some information she wanted to share. She said she was worried about Clint. I asked her if she knew where Clint was, and apparently she didn’t even know he’d skipped town.”

“He was still seeing her the whole time he was taking a sabbatical from his friends?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” Tom Hoffman nodded. “Apparently she used to sneak into his room through the window. I asked her about Clint’s sudden change in behavior and she told me everything I just told you. And what she told me was pretty much what I was suspecting. Clint was scared to death of Mark and Glenn, and felt his life was in danger. He said that these guys, whoever they were, had been the real deal when it comes to this devil stuff. Clint and David and Mary Ann and these other kids, they weren’t really cult members or anything. They were just a bunch of stupid kids looking for something to offend their parents and the community with. And the occult and satanic trappings are the way to do it. They knew this, and they flaunted it. It made them feel important and powerful, like they were apart from society. They didn’t really
believe
in it.”

“But Mark Lancaster and Glenn Wilson did,” Mike said.

“Exactly! And Clint could tell the minute they held the ritual that these guys weren’t fooling around. They were serious about it, and that scared Clint and David. And I think what scared them even more is that Mark displayed his powers to them. Hell, the guy
knew
Clint was lying when he rattled off that fake phone number. Clint said there was no way for the guy to know his phone number—his parents’ number is unlisted. And they’d never been by his house, he hadn’t even told Mark where he lived. They always met on neutral ground. There would have been no way for Mark to know anything that personal about him. But when he recited Clint’s phone number and address in that smug way of his, Clint knew he was up against something. And it scared the hell out of him.

“So he told Mary Ann everything. He told her not to tell anybody, that he was afraid of what might happen to her. Mary Ann, she knew that Clint was from a troubled background, knew he was moody—”

Mike Peterson interrupted. “What kind of troubled background did he have?”

“Ben Jackson is an abusive tyrant,” Tom Hoffman said. “Man has a rap sheet a mile long for various offences in that house. He’s been knocking Clint around since he was three years old. Helen stays with him, though. Says it’s her Christian duty to stay married to him.”

“Lord,” Reverend Powell rolled his eyes.

“That’s what I say,” Tom Hoffman said. “Mary Ann didn’t want to believe what Clint was telling her at first, but when he disappeared she knew it had to be true. She’s scared. They’re
all
scared.”

“Are the kids they hung out with afraid?” Frank asked.

Tom nodded. “Yeah.” Tom gripped his empty coffee cup. “Mary Ann says that she thinks these guys not only had something to do with those skinned dogs, she thinks they may have had something to do with Maggie Walters’ death.”

“How so?” Mike Peterson asked.

“Mary Ann doesn’t know,” Tom says. “She just feels they had something to do with it. She says Clint wouldn’t have run off like that so soon after Maggie turned up dead.”

Mike Peterson and Frank Black appeared to think about this. Vince’s mind was racing. He had the feeling Tom Hoffman wasn’t telling them everything. “So…you’re saying Clint’s girlfriend was spreading rumors of cult involvement just based on…their own fears?”

Tom Hoffman sighed. He looked shifty, his eyes flicking back and forth. “Listen, Mary Ann told me more, but…”

“For God’s sake, spit it out, man!” Reverend Powell hissed.

“Okay, look,” Tom Hoffman leaned forward, his voice lowered to a whisper. “I can’t tell you anymore here. We’ll have to go somewhere else, more private. Mary Ann
did
tell me more, and I checked it out and…and this shit is
big
.
Real
big, okay? Mary Ann doesn’t know how big it is, and I’m not going to tell her. Ignorance is bliss, right? The less she knows, the safer she is. When she told me certain things, though, I got curious and did some checking and found out shit that will blow your mind.”

“Tom,” Mike said, his voice just as low, his tone gentle and understanding. “We understand. We’re working on the same thing and we know how big this is. We understand the need for secrecy. Our plan is to gather and verify as much information as we can and take it to a trusted law enforcement official who has the power and authority to stop it. Why don’t we resume this discussion at Reverend Powell’s when your shift is over? We’ll show you some of the documents we have that will support what you’ve probably found out, and you can tell us more of what you came up with. Okay?”

Tom Hoffman nodded. He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. He still looked nervous but he was trying very hard to rein it in. “Yeah. I’d really feel better if I knew more about what was going on.”

Reverend Powell leaned forward. “Tom, trust in the Lord and you will be safe. Nothing can hurt you if you put on the armor of God.”

“Yeah, I know.” Tom Hoffman said. He glanced at his watch. “Listen, I gotta go. My shift ends at two. I’ll meet you at Reverend Powell’s.”

“We’ll be there,” Mike said.

They rose from the table and Mike threw down some bills for the tip. They meandered to the cashier’s and Tom insisted on paying the bill. They said nothing of the topic at heart until they were outside, walking down the front steps of the restaurant.

Reverend Powell was walking next to Tom Hoffman. “Trust me, Tom. You’re safe in working with us on this. With our combined spiritual strength, and the wisdom Mike and Frank have on this dangerous cult, we will no doubt prevail. But we need your help. We’re prepared to share all available information we may have if you’re willing to work with us.”

“Count me in,” Tom said. They walked out to the parking lot and Vince saw that Tom’s patrol car was parked a few cars down from Reverend
Powell’s mini-van. Frank Black was walking behind them, with Mike staying beside the Reverend and the law enforcement officer. An elderly couple was hobbling toward the restaurant; Mennonite couples with five children in tow were in the parking lot talking to a middle-aged couple. A woman with short blond hair and a man with shoulder-length black hair and a mustache were walking up to the restaurant holding the hands of a two-year old girl. The sky was cloudless and still, blue as the sea. A blond haired man in his early twenties stepped out between two parked cars in the row on Vince’s right and began walking toward the restaurant. Vince didn’t even know what was happening until he heard Frank shout just as he barreled into the blond man. “
Mike
!”

Mike whirled around, reaching for his weapon. Vince jumped at the sound of Frank’s voice and for a minute the images he received were a jumbled mass: a handgun clattering to the ground; Frank struggling with the blond man on the ground; the sound of slamming car doors and running footsteps and Mike yelling “
Vince, duck
!” Vince turned and saw two more clean-cut young men brandishing handguns cutting through the parking lot and he caught a brief glimpse of Mike raising his handgun and firing as he felt bullets whiz by, striking the car behind him.

Vince reacted on pure instinct. He slid underneath the nearest car and reached into his pocket for the semi-automatic handgun Reverend Powell had given him. He heard a volley of shots, heard shouts and screams and running feet as people ran for cover. He heard Reverend Powell cry out in pain, followed by another volley of shots and then excited shouts: “Get him, Joel, get him, get him,
get hiiiimm
!”

Then the scramble of running feet stopped and Vince saw a guy peering under the parked cars. The guy was two cars down from him. The man’s eyes blazed with hatred as he looked at Vince. He pointed a black handgun at him and Vince didn’t even think about it, he just pointed his own weapon and fired. He fired his weapon even as he was scrambling backward, trying to escape.

The guy squeezed off a shot of his own, then suddenly stiffened. He slumped down, eyes glazed open in death. Another sound of running feet and Vince was backing out from under the parked car, weapon held out, the cacophony of noise and panic enveloping him and then Mike was looming in front of him, his features panicked, out of breath. “
Come on, let’s go
!”

Vince followed Mike, still keeping his head low. They rounded a corner and came to the next lane in the parking lot. Vince nearly stopped right there, frozen with fear and panic. There were two men that Vince didn’t recognize lying on the asphalt. One of the men had been shot in the back twice; he was still clutching a nine-millimeter pistol. The other guy was lying unconscious a few feet away, bleeding from his nose and ear. The guy that had been shooting at Vince was lying on his stomach, part of his body underneath a Buick, still holding his weapon. Mike expelled the spent clip from his firearm and slapped another one in place. His face was dotted with sweat. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Vince followed Mike a few feet to where the others were. Tom Hoffman had been caught by surprise but had managed to draw his weapon. He was slumped on the ground by his squad car, moaning loudly, his
hands pressed against his stomach to staunch the flow of blood. “Mo
therfuckers shot me!” he wheezed. “Motherfuckers…
shot
me!” His mouth sprayed a mixture of spittle and blood.