Hell Fire

Portent of Things to Come

“This town is cursed,” the reporter said around a mouthful of peach pie.

We sat wedged into a booth at Ma’s Kitchen, a hole-in-the-wall that looked like it had been decorated just after World War II and hadn’t been updated since. Good thing Shannon was small, or we’d never have fit. She huddled on the other side of Chance while Jesse sat beside Dale Graham, who carried the scents of patchouli and hemp. He’d listened attentively to everything we had to say, and then made his somber pronouncement with a glee that contrasted sharply with its portent.

“You think it is?” Jesse asked. “Or you know it?”

Dale Graham took a sip of coffee to wash down the pie, his wooden beads rattling with the movement. “Do I have proof, you mean?”

I could see by Jesse’s expression that he thought this was a waste of time, but his smooth voice didn’t lose an iota of its patience. I grinned when I realized I could destroy his calm better than anyone else. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

“I’m working on that,” Graham said. He scraped his fork back and forth across his plate, making an irritating sound just a half step above nails on the chalkboard.

“So that’s a no,” Chance put in.

Well, we wouldn’t get anywhere if they alienated him, assuming he had anything of value to tell us. I was starting to doubt it. “What have you learned?”

He finally put down his fork and took a quick look around the diner as if he suspected someone of eavesdropping. Maybe his paranoia was persuasive, but I found myself doing the same thing. Men in flannel shirts sat at the breakfast counter, pushing their eggs around their plates while they nursed cups of coffee. Near the back, two old women were arguing over whether grits should be considered a starch. Nobody seemed to pay us any particular attention, but I leaned in so he wouldn’t need to raise his voice.

“I keep a journal,” Graham confided. “Making notes on the strange events around here. It goes back a long way, but things have really started to step up in the last fifteen years, and events seem to be escalating exponentially.”

“Missing pets and people,” I guessed.

The reporter gave an approving nod. “The freaky thing is, I don’t think anybody is looking for them.”

That was news. “Miz Ruth said her husband went hunting and never came back. The sheriff supposedly mounted a search, but nothing ever came of it.”

Graham shook his head. “Not true. I was in his office when she came in, and old Bulldog Robinson didn’t mount anything but his feet on his desk.”

“What were you doing in the sheriff’s office?” Jesse asked with a raised brow.

Looking put upon, Dale mumbled, “I was detained regarding an allegation of possessing controlled substances.”

“So you know for a fact, there was no search party,” Chance said, thoughtful.

“He didn’t even file the form she filled out,” the older man answered. “Just pitched it in the trash as soon as she left.”

Shannon articulated what everyone was thinking. “Whatever’s going on here, Sheriff Robinson’s in on it.”

I could tell that idea went down smooth as a truck full of cacti, particularly where Jesse Saldana was concerned. He looked like he hated the idea of another dirty cop. After what had happened with his partner, I couldn’t blame him, but at the moment we needed to decide how this information best served us.

“There’s something in the woods,” I said quietly. “And I think they know about it. So if someone disappears out there, they realize there’s no point in looking.”

“But they don’t want to panic the townsfolk.” Jesse drummed his fingers against the tabletop. “So they pretend to go about their business while feverishly looking for a solution to a problem they don’t acknowledge.”

I remembered the grisly pile of mementos and shivered. Chance’s arm went around my shoulders in a casual gesture that stole my breath. He’d never been attuned to me like that before; or if he had been, he never showed it. A surge of renegade warmth curled down my spine as he nestled me against his side. He didn’t even seem aware of what he was doing, as he listened to the crackpot theory Dale Graham was espousing.

I tried to be gentle when the reporter finally stopped talking. “I don’t think this has anything to do with pixies, killer clowns, or lawn gnomes that come to life in the dark of the moon.”

No wonder the authorities didn’t consider him a threat. Between the drugs and his penchant for tabloid journalism, nobody would ever take this guy seriously. We gave his words credence only because we’d seen things ourselves—and even then, we couldn’t believe everything he said.

“They’re watching us,” he concluded with a flickered look around the diner. “I haven’t figured out how yet, but they know where I am all the time.”

“Maybe we could see your journal,” I cut in.

That would likely prove more helpful than listening to him ramble about secret government bases hidden beneath Kilmer, alien breeding programs, and conspiracies that could only be thwarted with the persistent donning of tinfoil hats. The only guy in town willing to talk to us seemed nutty as a Snickers bar.

“I keep it hidden,” he said. “I don’t want them to realize how much I know.”

Well, I hadn’t thought he kept it in his pocket. If it represented years of conspiracy research, it was probably a pretty hefty notebook, maybe even more than one. I guessed it would be secreted in his house somewhere.

“Where do you live?” Chance asked, making the decision for me.

Graham glanced between us with narrowed eyes, as if he thought we might be plants from the establishment. His gaze lingered on Shannon, who said, “It’s okay. I know how you feel about my mom. I won’t come if you don’t want me to.”

That seemed to reassure him, though I didn’t know why. “Out on Rabbit Road,” he said. “All the way at the end, just before the road runs out. You can’t miss the place.”

“I know where it is,” Shannon said.

So did I, actually. He was on the other side of the woods from us, but just as close to those watchful trees. I repressed a shudder.

“Be there at nine tonight,” Graham said, and crammed the last bite of his pie into his mouth. “I’ll need time to retrieve my journal.”

So he didn’t keep it at home. Interesting. But then, homes had a way of burning down in Kilmer, didn’t they? I couldn’t imagine where a half-crazed relic from the sixties would hide something.

The reporter excused himself with a jaunty wave out of keeping with the ominous tone of our meeting. After he’d gone, Shannon scooted out and sat down next to Jesse, who made room in the booth for her. She didn’t look at us, instead studying the milky reflection of her hands clasped on the white Formica table.

“I didn’t tell you everything,” she whispered. “Dale knows that. Whatever’s going on, my mom is part of it. That’s why I was so desperate to get away. Because I think . . . whoever is a part of this mess is planning to do something to me. I heard her arguing with my dad about it one night.”

That would certainly explain her father’s misery, although I didn’t understand why he hadn’t just grabbed Shannon and run. I could certainly comprehend a parent doing all manner of things to protect his child. I didn’t understand inaction.

“When was this?” Jesse asked gently.

I wondered what he felt from her, this thin, big-eyed girl who was scarcely more than a child. His hand came to light on the top of her spiky, blue-streaked head, and she turned her face into his shoulder. I definitely grasped the appeal of that. Jesse had a way of making a woman feel safe.

“Last week,” she muttered, voice muffled by his shirt. “Just before y’all got here.”

“You must have been terrified.” Saldana petted her as if she were a stray puppy he’d found.

She sniffed. “Yeah. But I couldn’t let her know how happy I was to see somebody who might be able to help, so that’s why I acted like such a jerkwad when we first met.” Jesse looked puzzled, as he hadn’t been on-site to receive Shannon’s rudeness firsthand.

I waved that away. Her “rebellious teen” act was the least of our concerns. Before I could comment on what the reporter had said, the waitress swung by to find out if we meant to order anything besides coffee. She was a stout woman with big, stiff hair, a pink polyester uniform, and sensible shoes. When she recognized Shannon, her brows pulled together like an angry centipede.

“Shouldn’t you be in school, Shannon Cheney? Does your mother know you’re gadding about with strangers?” Her disapproving gaze took in the way Jesse was holding the girl, and her mouth tightened.

I could have assured the waitress he didn’t have lascivious intentions, but I doubted she’d believe me. She also wouldn’t credit that Shannon was scared of Sandra, who looked like the perfect mother. Appearances could be deceiving—could they ever.

“If she didn’t before, she’ll find out the minute you get a break.” Shannon didn’t look concerned. I wasn’t sure how I felt about her faith in us.

“Let’s get out of here.” I didn’t want to be here when her mother showed up breathing fire and brimstone. She might not be able to physically remove her child, but she could—and would—make our stay in Kilmer unpleasant. I didn’t look forward to the inevitable confrontation.

“Check, please.” Jesse offered the waitress his best smile, but she glared at him.

We paid the bill, just coffee and Dale Graham’s peach pie, then made our way back to the Forester. It was a gray day, heavy and overcast. A cool, damp wind blew over us, carrying the scent of distant fires. I couldn’t imagine what anybody would be burning in the middle of the day, but it sent a shiver of foreboding over me nonetheless.

“Something’s going to happen soon,” Chance predicted.

“I wish that struck me as a good thing,” I muttered as I climbed into the SUV. “But it absolutely doesn’t.”

“Me either.” Chance seemed grim as he settled beside me in the backseat. “Dale said events are escalating.”

Saldana started the car, made sure Shannon had on her seat belt, and checked our surroundings in the rearview mirror. I felt like people were watching us from behind their blinds and curtains, planning something so bad I couldn’t conceive it. Though I wanted to tell myself I was being irrational, I couldn’t.

I’d died out in those woods. If not for Jesse Saldana, I wouldn’t be sitting here. I found it hard to get my breath. Since my mother’s death, Kilmer had shaped my bogeymen and my nightmares, filling them with dark beasts that knew my name.

I scowled in reaction. “He also said we could blame everything that’s wrong in Kilmer on breeding experiments instituted by J. Edgar Hoover, using genetic material recovered from the Roswell crash.”

Jesse laughed as he pulled onto the road. “He’d make a great poster child for antidrug campaigns, wouldn’t he? So where to?”

Mentally I tabulated our schedule. We needed to be at Miss Minnie’s house for dinner by six, and we should check in with Chuch, Booke, and Chance’s mom before the day got too much later. At nine, we would swing by Dale Graham’s house on Rabbit Road.

After a moment’s thought, I said, “We should check out Little Ed Willoughby, if Shannon knows where he lives.”

“They have a place in the old neighborhood, four blocks from the hardware store.” Shannon gave Jesse directions.

Since Kilmer was a small town, it took us only five minutes to get there. We pulled up outside a tiny bungalow that seemed hard-pressed to house three people. The place seemed still and quiet, but as we climbed out of the SUV and went up the cracked sidewalk toward the front door, I heard the sound of a TV or radio from inside.

Chance waved us on, circling around back. I didn’t know what he was trying to accomplish until he came around the other side. “The car’s parked out back,” he said grimly. “Looks like we came to the right place.”

My heart gave a little skip. Now maybe we’d get some answers. I pounded on the door and then squeezed my hands together so they wouldn’t tremble. I’d never come to visit someone who had tried to kill me before.

It took almost five minutes before anyone answered. A muttered curse sounded as something thumped just inside. I braced myself.

Nothing could have prepared me for the sight of a young man hardly older than Shannon, sitting in a wheelchair. Both his legs had casts on them, signed with colorful get-well wishes. Little Ed Willoughby gazed up at us curiously, smiling with a touch of chagrin when he recognized Shannon.

“Hey, girl.” I could tell he was trying to look cool for her, actively hampered by several pounds of plaster and a tatty blue bathrobe.

Shannon seemed just as surprised as the rest of us. “What happened to you, Ed?”

“Fell off my uncle’s roof,” he muttered.

And broke both his legs? That took some doing.

I felt somewhat nonplussed. I could tell the casts hadn’t just been applied yesterday, and I didn’t think he could drive like that.

“Has anyone borrowed your car lately?” Jesse asked. Trust the cop to get the interrogation back on track.

Little Ed looked mildly alarmed. “No, why?”

“Because someone tried to run Corine over with a vehicle that looks like yours,” Chance put in. “Do you mind if we take a look in your backyard?”

“Not at all,” the kid said. If he had anything to hide, he was a hell of an actor. He seemed more confused than anything—and a little sweet on Shannon. “I don’t know of anybody else who drives an Olds Cutlass like mine. You sure it was blue?”

“Positive,” Chance told him.

Ed shrugged. “Well, feel free to have a look around. Come on back if you need anything else.”

We took him at his word and headed out back to inspect his car. It took Saldana only a minute and a half to put the pieces together. “This car’s been hot-wired. See the loose wires?”

I blinked at that. “So somebody stole Ed’s car, tried to run me over, and then brought it back when they failed?”

“What I wouldn’t give for a basic forensics kit, so I could take some prints, but then again, there’s no computer to run them through.” I’d never seen Jesse so frustrated. “This place is like living in the Dark Ages.”

Shannon sighed. “Well, that was pointless. It could’ve been anybody.”

“No.” I shook my head. “Just someone who wants me dead.”

On second thought, that didn’t narrow it down much at all.