“Are you immediately dropping charges against Courtney Burke?”
“Yes, but we haven’t been able to find her to tell her that.”
“Then tell the world. Hold a damn news conference before she’s killed.”
“We’re doing that in the next hour. We just went to the DA with the stuff we have on the perp. He’s a sad case. Guy’s served three tours of duty — the first two in Iraq, and then two years in Afghanistan. His veteran’s hospital-appointed psychiatrist says the perp believes he hears voices — voices of his dead buddies from the war. Anyway, he wound up working the carny circuit. He said in Richmond, he’d met some magician, a guy he called the Prophet who told him he could cure his PTS through hypnosis back on the farm. The guy is telling us he vaguely remembers the Prophet putting him under, as in under a damn spell. Said the Prophet was a direct descendent from an ancient Irish druid god. Listen to this, the perp said this Prophet guy has some kind of commune up in the mountains where he predicts the future by human sacrifice, apparently like the druids did. He said the Prophet orders his followers to stick an ice pick into the victim. By watching the way the vic’s limbs convulse as he or she falls, along with the pattern of gushing blood, the Prophet predicts the future.”
“Dan, I’m giving you a cell phone number. Last call was made at 3:47. I need to know where it originated. This is a life or death emergency.”
“Give it to me.”
I gave him the number of the phone that Courtney was using, and then I called Dave Collins and said, “You told me a few weeks ago that you have access to software that can track GPS mobile phone signals to with a few feet.”
“I do, and I tried it with the number you gave me for Courtney Burke. She never came on the GPS radar, apparently she removed the battery and sim card.”
“She’s put them back in because she just called me.”
“She did?”
“Could have been the case of a butt-dialed call because I could hear her running. She was panting, breathing hard, like someone was chasing her. And then I heard the voice of my brother, Dillon.”
“What’d he say?”
“It was a cold welcome that was really a threat, like the cat had caught the mouse and was smacking his perverted lips. Keep checking her phone. Maybe you’ll see something.”
“I saw Kim today. She brought Max by, left her with us while she works a shift. Nick and I had lunch with Miss Max. Sean, I don’t know what, if anything, is going on between you and Kim. But I do know this much, she’s very worried about you. More worried than I’ve ever seen her.”
“Tell her I’m fine. Tell her I’m trying to tie up some loose ends and will be home soon.”
“You need to tell her, Sean.”
“I will … I have to take this call.” I disconnected and spoke with Dan Grant.
He said, “That call pinged off a tower on a mountain near Linden, Virginia.”
“Thanks, Dan.”
“It’s Courtney’s number, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Be careful, Sean. If it’s the same mountain, same place where our perp had, for all practical purposes … an oral lobotomy, you might run into the guy he said is the Prophet.”
“My goal is to bring Courtney to you, get the DNA test, and end the nightmare for her.” I disconnected and started driving, speeding toward Linden, Virginia.
94
The man touched the barrel of the shotgun to Courtney’s back and said, “Not on my watch, girl. Raise up your arms. Now!” She did as ordered and the man lifted the .22 from her belt and stepped to the right side. He was in his mid-twenties, unshaven, feathered dirty hair under his cap. He glanced to his left as Dillon Flanagan approached.
Dillon looked like Abe Lincoln without a beard. Rangy. Gaunt face. Piercing black eyes with a molten, swirling fervor behind the irises. He rarely blinked. He was dressed in a black coat with tails, like a maestro’s jacket worn over a black T-shirt and dark jeans. His cowboy boots were narrow-toed, ostrich-skin.
“Greetings, Courtney,” he said, stepping closer to her. Two additional men stood on either side of him. Both looked like they’d slept for weeks in their clothes, grimy dungarees over flannel shirts, mud-caked boots. Neither had shaved or bathed recently. Courtney took a small step backwards. Dillon grinned, leaning in some. “You don’t look very pleased to see me. You tried to pull a gun on me. And all this time I thought I was your favorite uncle.” He grinned, his black eyes animated. “Diviciacus sent you, didn’t he? The man would cheat the gods to serve Caesar.”
“You’re a freak and you live in an insane world. You’re even sicker than I remember.” She lowered her eyes from his face to the gold bracelet he wore on his left wrist.
“I do live in an insane world, and I’m doing my part to change it.” He lifted his arm. “Is this what brings you to the mountains? You want this torc and all the power that it possess?”
Courtney said nothing.
He grinned, his eyes now fiery. The men stood a few feet away, each man’s whiskered face as vacant as field of weeds. Dillon said, “I think not, Courtney. You forget how to speak, girl?”
“Give me what you stole from my grandmother.”
“Why? Your grandmother’s dead.”
“No! Don’t lie!” Her heart raced, palms moist.
“The old woman finally left this world. I expect her to return as a sheep. Nothing more. Since you’re here, I have no doubt my brother, Sean, shall follow. Did you bond with your other uncle? Nothing like a family reunion to rock the cradle of your illusions. Let me paint a clearer picture for you, Courtney, one I’ll share with Uncle Sean when he joins us. You have no claim to the property in South Carolina or Ireland. That inheritance is mine. Always was. Always will be.”
“You killed her, I know it.”
“I can’t kill, I can only change the form of life through the act of death. It’s like an elevator ride to a different place, a different floor in your progression to reach enlightenment. That’s why the Celts never feared death in battle. They feared boredom in life. So when I change your life for the better, channeling through your death, you will one day praise me for having done so.” He turned toward his followers. “Bring her. We will begin the ceremony in a grove of mighty oak, because to catch a hungry lion, you have to set the trap by tying a lamb to the stake.”
I followed winding mountain roads en route to Linden, the rental car getting low on gas. I didn’t want to take the time to buy gas. Every minute Courtney was being held by Dillon was a minute too long. And I knew she’d never walk out of the mountains alive. I parked in the gravel lot of a country store, dust blowing from the lot. There was one pump. And the handwritten sign read: pay inside before pumping.
The interior of the old store was dark, some light coming from the front windows and a small wattage clear-glass bulb screwed into the base of a paddle fan. The wooden floor was made from knotty pine, worn smooth from decades of shoes and probably a lot of bare feet. I smelled barbecue pulled pork, hoop cheese, and barreled pickles as I approached the counter. A man sat motionless behind the counter, only his eyes moving under the bill of his cap, following me.
I said, “I’ll take forty dollars’ worth of regular.”
He nodded, stood slowly. “Okay, pump’s on.”
I set the money in front of him on the scratched glass counter. He used two fingers, pressing down hard on the old cash register keys. The cash register was non-electric, solid, mechanical, and the color of tarnished silver. Everything in the store appeared dated, old — merchandise that could have been sold from a Sears and Roebuck catalog. It was an antique store by default avoidance of the present. Everything was old except one thing. Something I spotted when I first entered.