Unearthed (19 page)

“Right reasons,” Kitty said, mulling that one. “Yes. Well. Are they here in town?”

Lawrence smiled. “But of course, Duchess.”

“Rousseau,” Kitty said, letting her cold fury drive her into sensible action rather than screaming and bloody disembowelments, “I think it’s time we held a party of our own. Let the upper echelon of society in this town know we’ve arrived and give them an opportunity to … pay homage. Something classier than that party at the shed the other night.”

“Of course, madam,” Rousseau said. He was the only one in the room standing. “When would you like to hold this event?”

“Tomorrow night,” she said as she watched the leg bend at the knee, trying to stand on its own. The hand and arm were trying to help, but futilely. Clearly, there were some pieces missing. “It’s not as though anyone in this town has anything better to be doing, after all.” She looked at Lawrence and smiled sweetly, sickly, and felt a grating sense of satisfaction as he returned her grace with a bowed head once more.

Reeve got out of the car with a hearty push, not really ready to face much of anything. This car—the department’s only Explorer, recovered from where it had been abandoned by Arch Stan in his flight—was a lot taller than his previous patrol car, and it took a step up and step down to get in and out. Once upon a time a minor thing, but with his joints aching the way they did, it didn’t feel so minor anymore.

He’d gotten old, he realized, not long after the start of all this craziness. When had all this craziness started, anyway? He’d remembered talking to Arch in his office, about being old and how it changed things in your life. MacGruder had disappeared a few days later, and the Blenkmans down the road had called him with that crazy story about a satanic ritual and all other brand of madness. Had that been the start? It wasn’t long before that he ended up picking up Arch’s brass up off the town square. What had Arch been up to?

Reeve stared out over a field of cars, parked all up and down a dirt driveway, abandoned, probably twenty or more of them, varying from a brand new BMW to a ragged old pickup truck. Ed Fries had parked his patrol car just in front of Reeve’s Explorer, and was waiting up on the porch next to a door that was hanging off its hinges, hands on his wide hips.

“Morning, Sheriff,” Fries said, looking every bit the stately lawman. He carried his extra pounds under that belt and behind his khaki shirt, but he did it with dignity. He had his gun on his belt, too, hand resting not far from where he could get it. Credit to him, Fries didn’t rock the boat. He was about as steady an Eddie as Reeve could expect these days, now that Reyes was out of the picture. Erin certainly wasn’t reliable lately, if she was drinking enough in her off time that she’d show up to a murder scene intoxicated.

“Yeah, it’s another fucking great one, ain’t it?” Reeve replied as he climbed the porch stairs to meet Fries. He cast another look out over the parked cars. This house had been a rental for a while now; he didn’t even know the proper owners. “What happened here, Ed?”

“Not real sure,” Fries replied, not taking his hands off his hips. “Property crime of some sort, I think? I had Donna start the look up on the tax records for this place. One of the neighbors filed a noise complaint late last night, said they heard screaming and shouting through the trees. I was down in the other end of the county at the time, so I just added it to the list to come on up here this morning—”

“You remember the days when we’d get a complaint about screaming and find out it was peacocks or something?” Reeve asked with a sigh.

“Yessir, I do,” Fries said. “Reckon things lately haven’t been much of an improvement.”

“You got that right,” Reeve said. “Find the source of the screaming?”

Fries gave him a loose shrug. “Not really. I don’t think it was peacocks, though, what with all the cars here.”

“Yeah, I doubt Chattanooga’s airport parking has gotten so expensive that they need to be opening up a discount lot out here in the middle of nowhere,” Reeve said. “Anyone inside?”

“Well, now that’s the interesting part of the story,” Fries said, and motioned him forward. The big man led the way into a parlor that looked like it had been the site of … something. There were two floor lamps tipped over, broken where they’d fallen, and an end table next to the far door that looked like someone had hit it with a leg or something; it sat a good twelve inches out in the middle of the floor, at an off-kilter angle.

“Signs of a struggle, maybe,” Reeve said, and Fries beckoned him onward. They walked through into a dining room where a full buffet of finger foods was sitting there, attracting flies. The smell hit him like a punch to the nose and Reeve clasped a thumb and forefinger on his nostrils, shutting them, opening his mouth to breathe. The smell still crawled in, tickling the back of his tongue and making him want to throw up. “What the hell is that?”

“Unconventional dining choices,” Fries said, his own nose pinched as well. “I called Chattanooga and they’re sending out an analysis unit later today. I don’t think this food is food in the traditional sense.” He pointed toward a dish and Reeve craned his head to look without getting any closer.

It had fingers in it. Severed fingers, dressed up on black crackers, glazed with some kind of orange sauce. “What the fuck?” He whipped his head around to look at Fries, who nodded. “You think those are real?”

“Halloween’s still a few weeks off,” Fries said. “Seems early for that kind of party. And they sure look real. Bowl over there looks like it’s got eyeballs in it.” He waved toward a white porcelain dish that Reeve didn’t try too hard to look at.

“Okay, if they’re real,” Reeve said, pinching his nose tighter, “where did these parts come from?”

“We got an awful lot of missing persons in the county lately,” Fries said, looking down, embarrassed. “And let’s face it, more than a few of the bodies we’ve brought in ain’t had all their, uh, pieces still attached.”

“Goddamn,” Reeve said in a whisper. Any theory about drug gangs and organized crime took another step down for him right there. What he’d seen on Crosser Street, with those people looking like they’d been butchered—that he had thought might have been the work of a serial killer of some sort, with some obvious cannibalistic tendencies. This was almost like the next phase of that, like a gang of cannibals had moved in and hosted a buffet, then taken off early and left all their cars behind.

He felt the ache behind his eyes starting and tried to remember if he’d had his normal six cups of coffee this morning. He probably hadn’t, not after that oddball weirdo reporter came and disrupted his routine. “Ed … I have approximately zero idea of what the fuck is going on here, and I’m about half past tired of that status quo.”

“Sorry, Nick,” Fries said, as though an apology would cut it. But it wasn’t Fries that he’d want it from in any case, and whoever did offer one probably wouldn’t be the person responsible for this whole fucking mess anyway.

Lauren waited in the back booth of Surrey’s Diner with a clear view of the entire room. She’d been there for a little while, just killing time until three o’clock. She tapped the surface of the table with the tips of her fingers as if she were playing piano, even though she hadn’t had a lesson since she was eight or so. It told her that her nerves were on the edge, and she just hoped that this meeting didn’t give them the shove they needed to go flying off—wherever that would lead.

“Need more coffee, Lauren?” Pat said as he passed her by. He was wearing his white apron, had a pot in hand. Must have been between help on shifts, too, because Pat usually stuck to the kitchen.

“Like Jennifer Lawrence needs to make bracingly honest and endearing comments to everyone who interviews her,” Lauren said, barely looking up from her ritual tapping of the fingers. She caught Pat’s look, that confusion born of the joke sailing right over his head. “That’s a yes.”

“Coulda just said that.” Pat finished the coffee pour and walked on. The place was pretty much empty right now, though it’d start buzzing in about an hour. It was a farmers’ cafe, and it tended to open early and close early. She found the hours inconvenient, kind of liking the ability to get coffee well past midnight, but this was Midian, so she shrugged and went with Keurig when that urge hit. It was easier than leaving home and moving somewhere bigger, like Atlanta, even though that was kind of tempting sometimes.

The bell above the door dinged as it swung inward, and Lauren’s eyes jittered to it. She saw a young guy hesitate in the frame. She took in brown hair, button-up shirt, and khakis. He was scanning the place, and then his eyes fell on her. She waved, tentatively, with one hand freed from the tapping for a moment, and he headed her way.

“Lauren Darlington?” he asked as he got close. “I’m Dave Belzer.” He was walking slowly, taking his time, being nonthreatening, she figured. He smiled tightly, and she gestured to the seat opposite hers. “Thanks,” he said and slid in, settling himself.

Pat was over in a flash, apparently taking his role as waiter seriously. “Coffee?” he asked, bringing a ceramic cup that was kinda taupe colored from repeated washings. He held it out like an offering, with the carafe of coffee held in reserve in case it was taken.

“Please,” Belzer said, taking the cup. Pat poured it full, draining the last of his carafe.

“See,” Pat said to her, “that’s how you say yes to a cup of coffee. Simple, ain’t it?”

“Don’t be grumpy,” Lauren said.

“I’m more like Doc,” Pat said.

“So am I,” Lauren said.

“Food?” Pat asked, like it was a suggestion.

“Give us a few minutes, Pat?” Lauren asked gently, sliding a look toward Belzer. She didn’t know if she wanted to be tied to this place—and him—long enough to share a meal. She’d looked over the website, and it didn’t seem crazy to her now, but seven weeks ago she would have been sure that he was nuttier than squirrel shit. Pat retreated back toward the counter and Lauren stared across the table at Dave Belzer. For his part, he stared back. “So,” she asked after an appropriate pause, “what’s your deal?”

He broke into a little smile, kind of a half-hearted, embarrassed sort of thing. “I, uh, went to school for journalism. Saw some things out in the world that defied description. Dug a little deeper and found … things I wasn’t expecting. Been chasing them ever since.” He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “What about you, Mrs. Darlington? What’s your story?”

“It’s not Mrs.,” she said and then felt the blush. “Not that you need to know that. It’s Dr. Darlington.”

Belzer’s eyebrows went up. “Really? Very cool. You’re young to be a doctor, aren’t you?”

She gave him an even gaze, like she heard that line all the time. If only. “I’ve, uh … kinda seen a few of the bodies. Enough to know that what’s happening in Midian isn’t—it’s not normal, okay?”

Belzer took out a mini notepad that fit into his palm and flipped up the first page. “What can you tell me about them?”

“Not a damned thing,” she said, closing that door tightly. “I was asked to consult by the sheriff’s office, and I can’t comment on what I’ve seen there. But …” she hesitated and caught a look from him that told her he was intrigued, “… I have encountered other things while I was off the clock that I might be able to talk about.”

Belzer put his notebook down on the table. “You called me. I thought it was to talk, to tell me something.”

She shook her head. “I called you to have a conversation. Quid pro quo. I don’t need my name out on your website, and I don’t—no offense—really care about boosting your page count or whatever. I want to know what you know, and if you can explain some things to my satisfaction, I’ll give you some lowdown and gossip in return.”

He stared back at her, pondering the offer. “How much could that be?”

“It could be quite a lot,” she said, trying to decide how to entice him. “Ever seen a person get poked by a sword and turn into a swirl of blackness that folds in on itself?”

Belzer’s expression just froze. “Yes. I’ve seen that. You have, too, I take it?”

“I have.” She didn’t blink. “So … what can you tell me?”

He hesitated, pursed his lips, and then started to spin a story. She listened and grabbed hold like every word was a drop of gold falling into her hands.

Brian awoke in the afternoon, heard the thumping of feet overhead, and gradually stirred. The air was filled with the smell of something frying. Here in the South, something was always frying. His mother might as well have gotten a vat of oil and done her all cooking in it, because the skillet was employed in almost the same manner every meal she made. Chicken fried in batter was the most commonly served meal in the Longholt house. Brian wasn’t a fan. He’d always been a healthier eater, even before he’d left for school, but his time in Providence had really sent him on a divergent path from the rest of his family, opened up his eyes to a wider world of culinary possibilities. He’d even tried going vegan with one of his girlfriends, but that ended up being a bridge too far for him. Still, everything didn’t have to be fried, did it?

He threw the blankets off and looked at his clock. It was nearing four o’clock in the afternoon, kind of an odd hour for most, but not for him. He felt like he had the neon disease, liked to be up all night and sleep all day unless he had a compelling reason to do otherwise.

He heard another round of thumping above and got dressed quickly, pulling on cargo shorts and a t-shirt before heading upstairs. He was yawning and rubbing his eyes as his bare feet ascended the carpeted stairs. He opened the basement door to find his father on the telephone, pacing a little, his boots making the thumping noise that had awoken him. He stared at his dad, and his dad nodded once at him in acknowledgment then turned away like he had something to hide.

“When is it?” His father spoke in a lower tone. “Tomorrow night? That was fast.” He glanced at Brian and feigned a smile. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it,” he said, the intonation of his voice changing, “but I wouldn’t go if I were you. Sounds like it could get a bit out of control.” His whole manner was furtive, screamed that he was hiding something. He even had a hand over his mouth, like he could block out his end of the conversation. If asked, Brian knew he’d lie and say he was trying to be polite. He knew when his dad was being polite, though, and it didn’t look like this. This was something else.