The Burning, page 27
He replayed the DVD, watched it again. He had no idea why all of those men from all of those tribes were gathering at Promontory Point-no outsiders did, and the men who were there weren't talking-but the fact that that was where the two sides of the transcontinental railroad had met meant that it was an important site in the history of trains.
And though Lincoln had signed the Pacific Railroad Act, the railway had actually been completed during Grant's tenure.
Trains.
Everything was coming together.
Sort of.
He sifted through printouts of other reports that had been gathered for him, incidents that might be related, might not. One group in particular stood out.
In several states for the past month or two there'd been sightings of mysterious black trains speeding by on disused rails or even on Amtrak routes. Concurrently, in quite a few of those towns, ghosts had been heard, mysterious disembodied voices in homes or stores or, in one instance, a gas station restroom. They were always described as speaking gibberish, some incomprehensible babble that one churchgoing woman in Missouri said sounded like "a gay man speaking in tongues."
Only yesterday, in Bear Flats, California, a police officer had come across just such an incident in a house where a gruesome murder had recently occurred. He'd had the presence of mind to record it on his cell phone, and the recording had buzzed instantly around the Internet, catching the ear of Ron Banks, one of the agents on Rossiter's team. Banks had conducted a follow-up interview, filing a report, and Rossiter looked over the printout now. He'd glanced at it less than half an hour ago, just before Saldana had brought in the DVD, but something about it nagged at him, and he read through Banks' summary again.
Chester Williams.
That's what it was. The name Chester Williams rang a bell, although he'd been so overloaded with reading and bogged down with research since being assigned to this case that he couldn't remember where he'd read or heard the name before. He circled it on the page so he'd remember when he came back to it.
He hadn't had a chance to actually hear the recording of voices that the police officer had made, so Rossiter went over to his computer and called it up. The sound was muffled and crackly at first, with ambient noise from the officer's breathing and footsteps that was louder than anything else, but gradually the voices came to the fore. Two of them: a man and a woman.
The ghosts were speaking Cantonese.
He recognized the language instantly. It had been over ten years since he'd made a name for himself in Rio Verde, Arizona, but those few weeks had been etched upon his consciousness with a razor, and one of the things he remembered clearly was the unique cadence of Cantonese. He had no idea what they were saying, but he knew what language they were speaking.
A lot of Chinese had worked on building the transcontinental railroad.
Again, everything seemed to be tied together. If he could just figure out the connections ...
He decided to call the Wings. The family had been very helpful to him in Rio Verde-the grandmother had been a veritable sourcebook of arcane lore-and maybe they could assist him here as well.
Very helpful'? Assist him? Who was he kidding? He'd merely been tagging along on that venture. If it hadn't been for the grandmother, his bones would probably be bleaching in the desert right now-along with those of the entire population of the town. He owed his career to the Wings.
He made a few phone calls.
The Wings, it turned out, had flown away. Their restaurant was closed, and the family no longer lived in town. Rio Verde itself was thriving. There were two new gated communities, both with man-made lakes, one with a golf course, and the rebuilt downtown featured all sorts of trendy eateries and boutiques. The dude ranch was long gone, but in its place was a resort and spa that catered to wealthy Phoenicians. With the influx of new money, though, must have come a new attitude, one that rendered obsolete the old-fashioned Chinese restaurant of the sort the Wings had owned.
Or maybe they'd just wanted to get out of town after everything that had happened.
He expected that sack-of-shit police chief to be a little more help than he turned out to be, but either the man knew nothing, or more likely, he wasn't willing to divulge what he knew, and after a short conversation Rossiter hung up the phone angry.
He would just have to track the family down. He had all of the resources of the bureau at his disposal, and not only could he learn their various addresses fairly quickly, but he could probably download satellite photos of their houses. Indeed, in a matter of minutes he learned that Sue Wing was an English teacher at a Chinese school in Irvine, California. Her parents and brother lived in Tucson.
The grandmother had died.
Rossiter was sorry to hear that. And not just because it put a roadblock in his path. As hard as it was to believe, time had softened him, and over the years he had come to not only respect the old woman but admire .her knowledge, skill and bravery. In the back of his mind, he supposed, he'd always assumed she would be around, a source of information he could consult whenever need be. It was something of a shock to learn that she was gone.
He decided to call Sue Wing. She was the one he had dealt with, his go-between with the rest of the family, and it was she who seemed to have been the closest to her grandmother and the most interested in supernatural phenomena. Besides, her parents barely spoke English. And her brother had been too young when it happened; it was doubtful he would know much.
Her number appeared on his screen, and he dialed it, clearing his throat so as to sound as professional and unthreatening as possible. She picked up on the second ring. "Hello?"
"Sue Wing?" he said.
"Yes?" came the tentative voice on the other end of the line.
"This is Agent Rossiter from the FBI-"
The line went dead.
He immediately called back, but the line was now busy. He tried once more, just in case, but he knew she had taken the phone off the hook. He felt a flash of anger and was tempted to call one of his old asshole comrades from the Phoenix field office who was now working in Southern California and have him haul her in for questioning, but he quelled that impulse.
What would the girl know, anyway? The grandmother was the expert. With her gone, his chances of learning anything worthwhile dropped to nearly nothing.
Hcsidcs, he couldn't allow himself to be distracted. Time was ol the essence, and he couldn't afford to fuck things up.
Rossiter glanced down at the printout next to his computer, saw the circled name.
Chester Williams.
He'd almost forgotten about that, and though he still couldn't remember where he'd come across the name before, it would be easy enough to track down. He called up another screen and typed in "Williams, Chester," and an entire page of distilled information appeared. Now he knew why the name was familiar. Williams had been an investor in the United Pacific Railroad. He had been influential at the beginning of the drive to build the transcontinental railroad, but his involvement had faded as time went on. He'd spent his final years in Bear Flats, California ... where he'd formed an organization called the ACL, the Anti-Chinese League, which had spread across the country and at its peak had over two hundred chapters and featured among its supporters a wide array of politicians.
That was one coincidence too many.
Rossiter pressed a button on his speakerphone. "Agent Saldana," he said. "Come in here, please." He'd intended to say "Get in here," without the "please," but at the last second he'd softened it. He was getting pretty good at this if he did say so himself.
A moment later, there was a knock at the door and his assistant let in Saldana. Rossiter stood. "I need you to lead a team of four men to the town of Bear Flats, California. A police officer reported hearing ghostly voices speaking Chinese and recorded an incident on his cell phone. This occurred in a house where an unexplained murder recently took place, a house built by railroad tycoon Chester Williams. I'll message over everything I have. I suggest you print it out and bring a laptop."
The agent seemed surprised instead of flattered. Wrong response, Rossiter thought, but he kept his expression neutral.
"I assumed I would be going to-"
Rossiter cut him off. "I'll be leading the team at Promontory Point. I want you to lead the second team--"
"But I thought-"
"Or not." Rossiter turned away dismissively and pressed the button on his speakerphone.
"No!" Saldana practically shouted. "I'm sorry! Thank you, sir. I will be happy to go to Bear Flats."
"Step on it, then. I want you there tonight. And I expect hourly reports once you're in town."
"Yes, sir."
Rossiter looked at the unmoving young man. "I said I would send you everything I have. Is there anything else?"
"No, sir."
"Then what are you standing there for? Get moving!"
Saldana practically tripped over his own feet at-t tempting to flee the office, and Rossiter smiled. Being nice had its place ... but there was nothing like good old-fashioned fear to light a fire under someone's ass.
He glanced at the clock. Time was wasting. He wanted Saldana in Bear Flats tonight, and he wanted to be at Promontory Point with his own team by midnight. He doubted they would make it, but he sure as hell was going to try. He went over a list of agents in his mind, trying to decide not only who would be the most thorough, knowledgeable and self-motivated- but also who would be the least annoying on the flight over.
Successful FBI work sometimes required more than merely brains and ability.
He pushed the button on his speakerphone. "Hanson," he said. "Singh, Worthington, Munoz ..."
Thirty-one
Bear Flats, California
Jolene looked down at the faces of her mother and her son. Both appeared more peaceful in sleep than they ever did awake, and she wished they could always be this way. Skylar shifted position, one arm flopping above his head, and her heart went out to the boy. Although he was strong, although he coped, adapted and survived, her greatest wish was that she could make his life easy, that she could spare him these hardships and give him the kind of carefree childhood he deserved.
She reached out and touched his cheek. It was soft, almost as delicate as it had been when he was a baby. A fierce protectiveness rose within her. If anyone or anything ever attempted to harm one hair on his head, she would kill them.
Her mother shifted in her sleep, muttered something unintelligible, then sank again into deep slumber.
Her mom had been doing very well. She'd found a small liqueur bottle in Leslie's cabinet yesterday that she'd polished off, but that had been it, and when they'd all gone to the store this morning, she hadn't even gone down the liquor aisle. Jolene was proud of her, and she wished she knew how to tell that to her mother without sounding patronizing.
She straightened, massaging her stiff neck with one hand, and glanced around Leslie's living room. Her friend was at work. She had been great through all of this, and though Jolene had not seen her in years, had not even bothered to keep in touch, the two of them had picked up exactly where they'd left off. It was as though she'd never moved away. Once best friends, always best friends, Jolene thought, and the sentiment brought her close to tears. She hadn't had a friend since to whom she'd been anywhere near as close. Part of it was due to the demands of being an adult. With work and family and the responsibilities of life, there just wasn't the free time to hang out together that there had been in high school. But part of it was also the mysterious chemistry that had brought them together in the first place, that had led them to bond over their shared disdain for jocks and cheerleaders in the back of Mrs. Wilson's social studies class. They'd been kindred spirits back then, instantly attuned, and connections formed at that pivotal age were always much stronger than those created later.
She or Leslie or both of them might move away in the future, but Jolene knew that they would not lose touch this time. They were bound together, friends forever.
Her throat felt dry, and she made her way to the kitchen to get a drink of water. Although the drapes were drawn, Jolene avoided looking at the windows. Leslie's curtains were frilly and sheer, and she was afraid of what she might see. Outside these walls, normal life went on for everyone else in town, but more and more she felt trapped within the house, barricaded against evil forces she could not hope to fight against. She knew that wasn't healthy, knew it was fostering an attitude of fear and paranoia, but she was afraid. For her son as much as herself. And after reading those diaries and seeing what she'd seen, she knew that there were evil forces.
Evil was not an abstract concept or metaphoric construct. It was real. And it lived.
They want revenge.
She wished Leslie would hurry up and come home.
Jolene walked back out to the living room, turning on the television but keeping the sound low. Jerry Maguire was on. She'd seen that movie with Frank. Before Skylar was born. Although the film itself still seemed recent, that period of her life felt like a long, long time ago, and thinking about it now made her sad.
She turned off the television.
There was the sound of movement from within the bedroom. It was probably nothing, but she couldn't afford to ignore it. She walked over to the bedroom doorway to check.
And Skylar awoke screaming.
In his dream, Skylar was himself, but he was also a marionette. His strings were being worked by the ancient Chinese man who'd spied on him and his mom through the window and who'd kidnapped him in the school bathroom. The wrinkled face grinned down at him as knotted fingers tilted and twirled the strings to make him dance. He didn't want to dance-he wanted to run-but his own will and muscles were no match for the overpowering force of the strings.
Suddenly there was another puppet approaching him. It was being controlled by a scowling bearded white man in an old-fashioned suit and hat. This marionette was made from the body of a mummified child, and its eyes and mouth were sewn shut with black suture that gave its face the appearance of a shrunken head. The strings made its skeletal arms and withered legs move up and down in a grotesque approximation of walking. Skylar's instinctive reaction was to run, and he tried to do just that, but the old Chinese man holding his strings started cackling and forced him to approach the other puppet with arms outstretched, as though inviting a hug.
Skylar wanted to scream but couldn't. He had no voice.
All of a sudden, there was a knife in his right hand, and with a hard, painful yank, the string attached to that arm made it thrust forward. Within seconds, he was jabbing at the other puppet, stabbing the mummified child in its shriveled stomach, in its bony chest. No blood emerged from the slices and tears in the dried skin, only puffs of dust, but despite the furious machinations of the bearded puppeteer, the marionette began to slow down, like a toy whose battery was dying. Another hard yank on the string connected to his right arm, and Skylar was stabbing the puppet in the face. Sutures ripped open, and opaque eyes glared out at him. The toothless mouth screamed silently.
Then he was being hoisted into the air, his feet scrambling up the collapsing skull of the marionette, his hands grasping the strings attached to the mummified child and climbing to the top, where he leaped upon the bearded man's hands.
His Chinese controller was laughing loudly now, no longer cackles but full-out guffaws. The bearded man at first let out a grunt of surprise, but Skylar sliced the muscle of his arm and then he was crying out in pain and fear, cries that turned to whimpers as Skylar moved up to his shoulder and began stabbing his neck and cheek and ear, the blood spurting out and covering him in a spray of crimson.
He could not see, and he fought against the strings with all of the strength he had, just so he could wipe
the blood from his eyes. The straining paid off and he finally overcame all resistance. He used the backs of both hands to wipe off his eyes-
And he was back in that cellar, lying naked on the hard dirt ground. Only he was not alone. The same bearded white man was unwrapping a piece of folded wet linen on a wooden workbench. He was not dressed in suit and hat this time but was clothed only in his underwear, which was stained red with blood, some of it dried, most of it not. There was blood on his skin as well, and when Skylar sat up, he saw that the man was withdrawing from the dirty wet linen a human hand. The stump of the wrist was ragged, as though the hand had been yanked off an arm rather than cut, and in the middle of the red was a circle of white bone.
Chester Williams, he thought. The man's name is Chester Williams. The old Chinese man had told him that. He remembered it from last time.
Williams picked up a long knife from the workbench and lovingly used it to sever a finger from the hand. A thin trickle of blood dribbled out.
Skylar gagged, throwing up on the ground next to him, and that captured Williams' attention. The bearded man turned around, and Skylar saw with horror that he had an erection.
He pointed to Skylar with the dripping knife. "Don't worry, sweetums. You're next."
And then Skylar was in a dark place that didn't seem like anyplace at all. He couldn't tell if his feet were on the ground or if he was floating in some limitless space, because there was no resistance against the soles of his shoes or any other part of his body. He put his hands out in front of him and tried to walk, but the darkness was so complete that he had no idea if he was moving forward or remaining in place or spinning in the open air. He sensed that he was not alone-although he was not sure of it until he heard the voice speak to him.
"Skylar."
It was not the same voice as before, the voice of the Chinese man, the puppeteer. There was something inhuman about it and vaguely snakelike, especially in the way it drew out the sibilance of his name.
He did not answer, tried to make himself small, tried to hide, though for all he knew the entity could see in the dark and was watching him right now.
"Destroy the house. It is the key."
Images accompanied the words. But more than imiges. Understanding. He understood what he was noelng, comprehended the reasons behind it.
