Chasing Echoes (The Fallen Republic Book 3), page 23
“No,” the FBI Special Agent said, observing them closely. “A corpse-sniffing dog. We use them to find dead bodies. Buried dead bodies.”
“Well I never,” Blessing said, trading a wide-eyed look with his wife. “I’ve heard of drug-sniffing dogs, even bomb-sniffing dogs, but corpse-sniffers? Is there that much call for that sort of thing?”
“Unfortunately.”
“What do you…?” Blessing turned and looked at the freshly tilled soil, then back at Moore. And laughed. “You think I buried those agents of yours? Beat ‘em with my cane, or sicced ol’ Ripley on ‘em, then buried them? Well, if that don’t take the cake. Sure, you want to bring a dog up here, waste an afternoon, be my guest. But if you actually think I murdered FBI agents, I’ve watched enough Law & Order, I probably should have my lawyer here when you do. Maybe filming it. Just in case you push over the fence or the like, documenting any damage to the property. Maggie’s right proud of that garden, so you’d want to be careful. You should call first, instead of hopping over the gate. And probably get one of those warrants, just to make it official. Do you have a card? I can have my lawyer contact you, and arrange it. I—wait a minute, I keep forgetting to ask—why were those agents here in the first place? Not the lions.”
“Weapons seizures. You have a number of firearms registered in your name, and they were following an emergency order from the Department of Justice.”
“This is the first I’ve heard of that. Are you here to seize our weapons, agent?” Blessing said casually.
Moore shook his head. “The new President has temporarily halted the firearms seizures,” he said curtly.
Blessing nodded. “Seems like the smart choice. The world does seem to be going to hell in a handbasket, no shortage of real criminals for you gentlemen to chase. And zombies. I hope you find your men.” He shivered. “I’m going to catch a chill just standing here talking, and my leg stiffens up something awful in this cold, how about I walk you back to the gate to let you out? That way you don’t have to climb back over it. And we’ve got to get back to work.” He grabbed the cane and, limping heavily, accompanied by Ripley, walked Moore around the house and down the long driveway to the gate, which he opened using the keypad. He stood there and waved, watching Moore’s government SUV head down the long dirt road, finally moving out of sight.
Blessing turned and, barely displaying a limp and just carrying the cane, headed back around the house. The cold did bother his knee, that was no lie, but the cane was for uneven ground, just in case. Maggie was standing there, looking nervous.
“Do you think I played it too dumb?” he asked her. “Or just dumb enough?”
“I’m not sure he’s qualified to spot the difference,” she told him.
He nodded. “Fair enough. Felt like I was laying it on a little too thick. Been a long time since I did any theater.” He worked his neck, which was so stiff from the stress it felt like he had steel cables under his skin. “The way he was eyeballing my Glock, you could have put a .270 in his ear before he even noticed.”
“Is he going to show up with a dog? Or was that a bluff?”
“Who knows? Who cares? I actually hope he does. If they search the land using dogs, ground penetrating radar, whatever, search the house, and never find anything, then their focus will move on to Denver. Where it probably already is. Toughest part of that was avoiding traffic and security cameras, which is why I stuck those phones in a double layer of tinfoil as soon as I reached the bottom of the mountain, and only pulled them out here and there. Big Brother’s always watching.”
She shook her head. “I thought you were crazy, driving their phones down. And not calling Jeremy.” Jeremy Bowlding was their lawyer.
“Playing a hunch. Deputy left before anything started, so all he could testify to was a conversation over an intercom. I’d heard how short-handed the feds were then, and now it’s twice as bad. That’s why he came up here alone, instead of with a partner as he should have, they’re that short-handed. That’s likely why our new President has halted the gun raids, they just don’t have the manpower to do it. Especially since we are far from the only people to have reacted the way we did, according to the online threads. I was running around like a crazy person that day, taking care of the bodies and those cars, nearly gave myself a heart attack, and it takes them a week to show up. A fucking week. Goddamn inconsiderate, you ask me. I haven’t been able to sleep worth a damn, waiting, and I’ve heard you at night. If it wasn’t four of their own men they were looking for, they wouldn’t have bothered at all. We’ll always be suspects, but not serious ones. We’re beat-up septuagenarians. And if they really thought we had anything to do with it, it wouldn’t have been one guy talking to us here, we’d have been in Denver, in cuffs. Or it would have been a full raid team, in the middle of the night.”
“So, do you think that’s it?” she asked him.
He shook his head. “Unless the government completely collapses, at some point, a month from now, a year, two years, ten years, they’re going to show up with a warrant. Ask us to answer a few questions down at their office, at which time we’ll bring Jeremy along, and he’ll politely refuse to answer any questions on our behalf. But they’re not going to find anything. Because pigs really do eat everything.”
“Even bones?” she asked.
“Even bones,” he assured her. “Which means I won’t be buying any of Clint’s bacon for a good long while, knowing what fed those pigs.” He shivered at the memory, as he’d watched, just to make sure. It would likely give him nightmares for years to come. He could still hear the hogs crunching at the bones. “I destroyed the rifles. And I watched Bobby crush the cars myself.” He smiled and shrugged. “It’s good to have unusual friends. Friends in low places. Friends who need ammo, which is worth its weight in gold these days.”
“Until the day I die I’ll always be looking over my shoulder,” she said. “Waiting for the knock on the door.”
“But until that day,” he told her, “you will have me by your side.”
She looked at him for a long few seconds, then gave an eloquent shrug. “Meh,” she said, which made them both burst into laughter. Ripley looked back and forth between the two of them, then joined in with a loud “Woof!”
The secret to happiness is to face the fact that the world is horrible.
Bertrand Russell
Chapter Twenty: North Reading, MA
“Do I need to repeat myself?” Carli said, slowly, clearly, and firmly, staring Steve Grafenberg in the eyes, then looking around, addressing everyone. “We’re not taking anything. We’re just doing inventory. Am I clear?” They were standing on Mr. Robertson’s front porch. Mr. Robertson was there too, a hint of a smile on his face. Carli’s son Matty was inside, with Mrs. Robertson.
It didn’t matter that Steve had eight inches and at least fifty pounds, all of it muscle, on Carli Scott. It didn’t matter at all. He nodded, and tried not to gulp like a kid in a cartoon.
In their previous lives, in the world before the virus, Steve probably wouldn’t have given a shit what Carli Scott had to say about anything. He wouldn’t have had anything to do with her. Carli was a young mother, not tall, unremarkable in looks, with a little kid. Not even MILF material, at least by his standards, and he had high standards, because he could. He was eighteen, six-foot-two, two hundred pounds, an offensive lineman on the high school football team, handsome by any standard, with a hot girlfriend who did more than just look good. The two of them—the high school football jock and the suburban mom—didn’t even exist in the same universe, apart from living on the same street.
But that was before.
Now ninety percent of his prior confidence had disappeared. School was closed. Whatever chance he had of getting a scholarship and playing college ball was in the toilet, at least for a year or two, as even if—no, when colleges opened back up they probably would hold off on bringing back team sports for quite some time, and there was no other way he’d likely be able to afford anything other than community college. He no longer had a girlfriend, probably, as Shelly’s parents had taken off to somewhere in Pennsylvania, where they owned property in the middle of nowhere. Who knew if she’d ever be back? Steve’s father had almost died, nearly gone full zombie from the virus, and was still weak as a nursing home patient, lying in bed all day, barely able to use the bathroom himself. His mother had had a mental breakdown, and was worthless for just about everything, drinking wine all day, so Steve spent most of the day taking care of them. There was nothing else to do, with the school and just about every business closed, and everyone keeping to themselves, terrified of the virus. He spent almost all of his time at home, watching YouTube and Netflix on his phone when he wasn’t helping his parents.
Meanwhile, Carli Scott, short demure forgettable housewife Carli Scott, the one with the little kid perched on her hip when she went out to collect the mail, was now a fucking gunfighter. A certified dead-eyed double murderer. She and old Mr. Robertson had tracked down the people looting houses in the neighborhood, a husband-wife team of assholes stealing food, stealing her food, and she’d gunned down both of them. In their own kitchen. Blown the woman’s head clean off with a shotgun as she’d tried to stab Carli. Emptied a revolver into the guy’s chest.
It had sounded like complete bullshit to Steve, until he’d seen the bodies.
His buddy Paul Napolitano had told him all about it. Said Mr. Robertson had grabbed Paul’s father the next morning, after nobody could get through to the authorities, and the two men had carried the bodies out into the backyard and covered them up with a tarp. Bullshit, Steve had said to Paul, and kept saying it, until they went behind the Carmichaels’ house and looked underneath the tarp. Steve had nearly puked. Then they’d peered in the window, and seen all the blood on the kitchen floor. Even sprayed across the cabinets. So much blood. Blood dried brown, which was something he hadn’t known before. They pressed their noses against the window like kids until they heard something, and turned around to see Mrs. Scott standing there, a pistol on her hip and a bandage on her neck. Belatedly Steve remembered she lived next door.
“Go home,” she’d told them flatly, and they had. As fast as they could run. Steve might have even pissed himself a little.
But that was days ago. The police never showed up. No police, no fire department, no EMS, nobody. Hell, no one on the street could get through on 911. Things hadn’t gotten better, they’d gotten worse. Mrs. Scott had called a meeting of the residents still on the street, told them her plan, and once everyone agreed that it was probably a good idea, she’d asked for some cooperation. Some help. Volunteers. His father had volunteered Steve, to do whatever she said. Secretly he was a little bit terrified, but he’d done his best to hide it as he’d walked over to Mr. Robertson’s that morning. Mrs. Scott was there, already waiting, and she explained what they were going to do. And why they might need someone young and strong. Steve nodded nervously, having a hard time tearing his eyes away from the revolver at her waist.
More than a few other neighbors were there as well. Steve got the impression they didn’t intend to help, but wanted to keep an eye on the proceedings. They stood there frowning, their arms crossed, but Steve was somehow glad to see he wasn’t the only one glancing nervously at the compact mother like she was a hissing snake.
“Today we’re just doing inventory,” Carli said. “Compiling a list. Making copies. Distributing them. Verifying which houses are empty. If things get worse, in two days or two weeks, then we’ll have another neighborhood meeting and then maybe find new homes for some of the items we inventory. Right? Okay, what’s first?” She looked at Wendell Robertson. He had a clipboard in his hands. He consulted it briefly, then looked up and pointed at the house two doors down, on the same side of the street.
“Barney Kelly,” Wendell said. “Nobody’s seen him for at least a week, probably more.”
“Right,” Carli said. “Okay, let’s go.” She strode off the porch and walked across the lawns, everyone else in tow. “You know him?” she asked Wendell.
He shook his head. “I don’t think he knew many people on the street. Moved in…eight months ago? Something like that. Nobody at the meeting knew anything about him. Hell, most of them didn’t know his name.”
Barney Kelly’s house was an awkward thing, formerly a sprawling single story that previous owners had built a second story atop. Carli marched up onto the porch and knocked loudly on the front door, a thick wooden piece that looked original to the house. She waited thirty seconds, then knocked again. After fifteen seconds she nodded, then looked at Steve and Wendell, ignoring the half-dozen or so onlookers. “Okay, walk around the house, look in all the windows. Try all the windows, and the doors.” She acknowledged the crowd for the first time. “Anybody have a spare key?” She got blank looks and shaking heads.
She checked around outside the front door, but found no likely place where a spare key would be stashed. No flower pots, and no fake rocks. She checked the area around the side door, then the small deck in back, but found no key. When she walked back to the front she tried the overhead door of the attached garage, but it didn’t move. Wendell and Steve were there waiting for her. She nodded at Wendell. “Okay, do your thing.”
He glanced at all the people standing around, watching. “Well, my thing might be nothing more than public embarrassment,” he mumbled, just loud enough for her to hear, but then he pulled the case out of his pocket and knelt down before the front door. He glanced over his shoulder and told the people watching, “Even when I knew what I was doing, this isn’t quick. It’s not like on TV.”
Nearly forty years earlier he’d spent a year and a half working for a locksmith. At the time he’d gotten really interested in picking locks, and gotten pretty good at it, but after moving on to a much better paying union job he’d nearly forgotten all about locks. Still had his pick set, though, wedged in the back corner of his workbench. And he still knew what to do, even if maybe he no longer had the skills to do it.
He selected a tension wrench and a standard rake. The lockset on the front door looked old, probably original to the house, and the outside of it was all scratched up from years of key use. He inserted the end of the wrench, applied just a little pressure, then slid in the rake. He felt for the pins one at a time with the tip of the rake, pressing on them while keeping the tension on the wrench, working them from front to back, back to front. And then it turned, to his surprise. Wendell rotated the wrench all the way, then grabbed the knob, turned it, and pushed open the door.
“That was pretty darn quick,” Carli observed, impressed.
“Beginner’s luck,” Wendell admitted, but secretly he was very pleased. With more than a bit of effort, and aching knees, he stood up, and gestured at the open door. “Ladies first.”
She nodded, then looked from Steve to Wendell and back, and said, “Food. We’re looking for food. Food, gas, batteries, anything like that.” She nodded at Wendell’s clipboard. “Mark what, how much, and where in the house.” Then she turned her gaze to the crowd of people watching. “I don’t want the whole neighborhood in the house. Neither would Mr. Kelly. You stay out here. You’re suspicious, fine, when we come out you can check to make sure our pockets aren’t stuffed with cash or cheese.”
The inventory of Barney Kelly’s house only took fifteen minutes. There wasn’t much food, but they did find a good supply of batteries, and a one gallon can of gasoline in the garage. She hadn’t said it out loud, publicly, but in private she told Wendell and Steve to also be on the lookout for guns and ammunition. Barney Kelly’s house was clean and uncluttered—totally not what she expected from a single man in his thirties. She briefly assumed he was gay, then wondered if that was an unfair stereotype—or an accurate one.
They found no spare key for the front door. There might have been one tucked away in a drawer somewhere, but fifteen minutes wasn’t much when it came to searching a house. But Carli didn’t want to spend too much time in each house, or this would take forever. Back out on the front porch she nodded at Wendell, and he locked the front door and pulled it shut. “Okay, where next?”
Wendell Robertson pointed across the street and two doors down. “Frank and Ginny Armbruster. Nobody has seen them for…a while. Not sure how long.”
The crowd walked across the street and up to the Ambruster’s front door. There was a modern electronic keypad for a lock. Wendell glanced down at his clipboard, then up at the crowd. “Molly? You said you know the code for the lock?”
Molly Parker lived next door to the Armbrusters, and nodded. “They ask me to collect their mail when they go out of town to visit their grandkids,” she said. “They never like stopping their mail, they’re afraid somebody at the post office will burglarize their house or something. The code’s—”
“No,” Carli said quickly, interrupting her. “Don’t tell us. The fewer people that know, the better.”
“Oh, okay,” she said nervously. She moved to the door and, self-consciously, blocked their view of the keypad as she punched in the code. The lock beeped, and she turned the handle and pushed the door open. Then stepped back.
“Hello?” Carli called out. She didn’t wait for a response, and turned to Molly Parker. “Why don’t you come in with us?” Carli suggested. “You’ve been in the house before, you might know where things are.” She smiled at her neighbor. Then she blinked twice, and frowned. She took a step and leaned into the open doorway, then jerked backward, shaking her head and coughing.
“What?” Wendell said. Then it hit him, and he took a step back. “Oh, Lordy.”
“What?” someone in the crowd asked.
“Dead body. It’s got to be,” Wendell said, holding an arm up in front of his face.
“And that’s the other reason we’re doing this,” Carli said. She looked a little sick for a second. She wanted to go back to the Robertson’s and hug her son. She wanted her husband to hug her, and tell her everything was going to be all right. Instead, she didn’t even know if her husband was still alive. She hadn’t talked to him in days, and didn’t know what to say to Matty when he asked about his father. And she was doing…this. She blinked away the tears, muscled down the self-pity, and looked at Molly Parker. “Can you come in? You know what they look like, if it’s the Armbrusters, you can identify them.”
