Night-Blooded Boys, page 13
part #3 of Pitchfork County Series
Joe came at last to the Long Man’s sitting room. It was much as he remembered it, but seemed longer, narrower. The fireplace was cold and dead, an odd counterpoint to the endless fire burning outside the house. The wicked chair, looking ever more like a torture device constructed from twisted rebar and piano wire and bones, dominated the far end of the room. It faced the door, and the Long Man reclined on it, his legs stretched out before him, wrists dangling over its arms.
The old man smiled at Joe, showing wide, white teeth inside his lips and deep creases outside them. Joe felt something twitch in the back of his head, the connection between the Long Man and him growing stronger as he drew nearer. “Well, then. Welcome back.”
Joe didn’t for a second believe he was welcome. It was hard to see his boss in the dim lighting, but he didn’t like the shark-like glint in the old man’s eyes. “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”
A racking cough dragged itself out of the old man. “Bad pennies always turn up. I’m more surprised it took you as long to make your way out here as it did.”
Joe remembered the weeks of healing, how close he’d been to dying despite the supernatural strength and resilience afforded him by his position and the power he’d stolen from the monster before him. He thought of the dark days when it had seemed easier to wrap his lips around the barrels of his shotgun and open the back of his skull to the sky. He remembered Stevie drawing him back from that ledge, a little more each day, until he was ready to start again.
And, now, he was back in the dragon’s den, plumbing the same depths that had come so near to killing him and everything he loved.
“If I had my way, I’d never have stepped through those doors again.”
Another cough tore itself free from inside the Long Man, mingling with a dry, barking laugh. “You stole what you needed, so why come back?”
“Something like that.”
“And now you need something else?”
Joe grabbed one of the overstuffed horsehair chairs and dragged its cross the cracked stone floor. He stopped a few yards from the Long Man and spun it around so he could straddle it. He rested his chin on the back of the chair and stared at his boss. “Information.”
“Of course. But I’m not as spry as I once was. What I can tell you is limited.”
“You haven’t left this house since you moved in. Your knowledge isn’t limited by where you go, so don’t try and bullshit me on this.”
The Long Man’s bony hand waved Joe’s words away. “You know so much about so many things. Why even bother to ask my opinion?”
Joe turned his head to the left, then the right, cracking his neck to relieve the tension building there. “Amogen. How’d they get into Pitchfork?”
The old man’s eyes widened a fraction, but he showed no other signs of interest. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re trying to tell me some big drilling company was able to buy up leases and get their operation going without your say-so?” Joe raised one eyebrow at the Long Man.
“Contrary to what you may believe, I no longer hold the kind of sway that I once enjoyed here.” The Long Man snapped his fingers, and a glass of golden whiskey appeared in his hand. “Once upon a time, I knew all that happened in this cursed place. But you changed all that when you stole my power for yourself.”
Joe flinched at the rage that bloomed in the dark space where he kept the power he’d stolen. His connection to the Long Man crackled with hatred that threatened to bury Joe under its intensity. He pushed back, grinding his teeth with the effort. “I did what I needed to do to survive.”
“You’ve destroyed everything,” the Long Man hissed. “I was so close, so very close and now—”
“I know how close you were. That’s why I did what I did.” Joe tried not to remember the terrible price he’d paid himself, the pain and the near loss of his own daughter. It was a desperate trick, one that had only just worked. “And it’s why you’re never going to get me under your fucking thumb again. We’re not going to talk about it, either. Now. Amogen.”
The Long Man’s smile returned. “You know I can feel that other thing inside you. It hates you more than I do. How long do you think you’ll be able to hold this particular tiger by its tail?”
Joe looked away. The Long Man had a point. The strain of holding onto the Haunter in Darkness was wearing on him. Every day he felt a little thinner, a little more worn through. A time was coming, he knew, when he would have to figure out how to deal with these old fuckers, or they’d break free and tear his mind apart. But that day was not today. “As long as I need to.”
“Do you ever wonder,” the Long Man sipped his whiskey, “do you ever wonder what would happen if we two mortal enemies worked together? Just for a moment. Just long enough to be done with you.”
That thought, Joe’s deep unspoken fear that one day both of the strange monsters he held in his head would decide to turn on him rather than constantly seeking advantage over one another, lit a spark of fury in Joe’s heart. He channeled his anger into the darkness where he held those creatures.
The Long Man’s drink fell from his hand, and his fingers clutched at the empty air. The cords of his neck muscles stood out, and his eyes rolled in their sockets. Curds of yellow foam formed at the edges of his lips, spilling down onto his sweat-stained silk shirt.
Joe let go of his hate. “Let’s try this again. Amogen. Why are they here?”
“Gas.” The old man’s hands rubbed at his neck, then at one another, then back to his throat. “There are significant natural gas deposits in Pitchfork. Enough to help me build up my war chest.”
“That’s bullshit. They aren’t here for natural gas. They’re up to much worse, and you know it.”
“I don’t.” The Long Man’s voice was weak and halting. “I sold them leases, but that’s all I approved. This county needs the money, the jobs.”
Joe tried to feel some hint of deception coming from the Long Man, but there was nothing to latch onto. The Long Man’s thoughts were cold and distant and slick as black ice. “Whatever they’re doing, we’ve got new monsters in Pitchfork. They’ve dug into something, and it’s leaking into the water. People are changing.”
“Accidents happen.” The Long Man shrugged, and his shadow contorted and flared on the wall behind him. “But the Amogen operation is mundane. The people they sent know nothing about Pitchfork’s past or its many secrets.”
“How do I stop it?”
Another shrug from the old boss. “I didn’t call you. I have no idea what this thing is. Or even if it is a thing.”
Joe stood, kicked the chair away. “Oh, it’s a thing. The shit is already hitting the fan down there. I’ve got one dead kid and a feeling we’re about to have a whole lot more.”
“Then maybe you should be down there investigating instead of spending your time up here, bullying me.”
Joe knew the Long Man was playing dumb, but he couldn’t figure out why. The old monster was tied to Pitchfork and if all the county’s people turned into monsters and had to be put down, Joe had a distinct feeling that would be the end of the Long Man. There was no profit in letting everything turn to shit.
“If you’re trying to teach me a lesson, it won’t work. I’m too dense for subtlety.” Joe hooked his thumbs into his belt. “If I find out you knew about this and didn’t tell me…”
“You’ll come up here and kill me?” The Long Man beckoned at Joe with one thin finger. “Just come over here and do it, then. I’m bored with waiting for you to make good on that promise.”
Joe smiled, a sharp, hard flash of teeth. “No one gets out of here that easy. I still need you.”
The Long Man snorted a derisive laugh. “Of course you do.”
“But, one day, I won’t.” Joe sent a jolt of hate down the connection to the Long Man and felt good about the look of pain on the old fart’s face. “If you keep holding out on me, there’s a good chance that day is going to come around sooner rather than later.”
“Promises, promises,” the Long Man muttered. “You should learn to think around your prejudices against me. Those monsters you’ve seen, are you so sure they’re the problem?”
Joe knew better than to let the Long Man’s words twist him up. The bastard had a strong gift for turning his thoughts sideways. “If you think of anything useful, call me.”
Joe turned his back on the Long Man and stomped back out of the house. He heard his boss’s words drift to him, little more than a whisper. “I’ve got your number.”
24
Joe loaded his plate with bacon and sausage, then topped the stack with a runny egg he rescued from the frying pan before Stevie could cook it to death. “Thanks for the fuel,” he said, and kissed his wife on the cheek.
He hadn’t slept, and his time with the Long Man had proved far more exhausting than he’d anticipated. He needed protein and coffee, and lots of both. Joe took his plate to the table and slid into his seat.
Stevie let him get a few bites in before she took up her seat and dropped a stack of toast in front of him. Joe grabbed a slice and used it to mop up the yolk.
“Learn anything?”
Joe shook his head. “Not really.” He swallowed a big bite of toast. “He’s still an asshole. Maybe more than before. But I don’t think he knows shit. Even if he did, he wouldn’t tell me a fucking thing after what happened between us. Old monster holds a grudge.”
Stevie snatched a scrap of bacon off Joe’s plate and popped it into her mouth. “What now?”
Joe took another bite, tried to come up with a good answer. The truth was he didn’t know what came next. “It’s Amogen. I’m sure of that from what we saw. Guess I burn ‘em out.”
Stevie reached for another slice of bacon, but Joe warded her off with his fork. “Get your own damned food.”
She sighed and shoved her chair back. “You want another egg?”
“Two,” Joe said. “Don’t cook ‘em hard.”
“Fine.” Stevie turned on the burner under the frying pan again and snacked on a piece of bacon. She sliced off a cube of butter and dropped it into the pan. “You sure going to war with Amogen is going to solve this?”
Joe took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Do I think it will clean up our water? No. I’m still not sure what to do about that. Or if there’s anything I can do about it. But driving those corporate assholes out of Pitchfork will stop shit from getting any worse.”
Stevie cracked a pair of eggs into the frying pan, flicked the shells into the empty carton. “You kick that hornet’s nest, it’ll call in an airstrike. Right on top of your pointy little head.”
Joe swiped up the last of the egg yolk from his plate with the edge of his toast. “You’re very optimistic.”
Stevie swirled the skillet and sloshed sizzling butter over the frying eggs. “This isn’t busting up a pack of meth dealers or knocking down some inbred cult. Amogen isn’t just here. They’re huge. Their operation here is one, tiny piece of their outfit. You start fucking with that, they’re going to send in a whole pack of outsiders to see what’s up in our neck of the woods.”
Silence thickened in the kitchen. Stevie brought the skillet to the table and scooped the still-sizzling eggs onto Joe’s plate. He smiled up at his wife and hooked an arm around her waist. “Outsiders are going to come no matter what I do. The camel has its nose in the tent now. All I can do is hurt it bad enough that it decides to go look for somewhere else to park its ass.”
“Camels are stubborn.” Stevie returned the pan to the stove. “And they bite.”
Joe skewered a sausage on his fork. “I can’t just let them do whatever they want. We’re going to end up with half the county crazy and the other half dead.”
Stevie raised both hands in surrender. “I’m not telling you to do nothing, but you need to be careful with this. It’s not just the corporation I’m worried about.”
“What else is eating you?”
Joe watched his wife’s eyes, the way they searched his face for something before she spoke. “Whatever else they’re doing, that company has done some good for Pitchfork. Jobs. Money. Opportunity.”
His words caught in his throat. He had to try twice before he could get them out past his surprise. “You think they’re good for Pitchfork? Their shit almost killed us. It did kill Ben Ames. It made some teenager flip the fuck out and try to kill a waitress. If I hadn’t come along, he’d be dead right now, and so would the sheriff and a couple of her deputies. How can that be good for anyone?”
Stevie snatched another slice of bacon, narrowly avoiding Joe’s fork. “You make it sound so clear cut. But that company has brought jobs here. Good jobs. People in Pitchfork have money again. They have hope. What happens if you blow all that away?”
Joe scowled. “I’d never be able to do my job if I worried about shit like that.”
“You ever think that is part of your job? What good is it to drive out all the evil in Pitchfork if you end up driving out all the people who live here, too?”
Joe finished off the last of the eggs and grabbed the last piece of bacon before Stevie could claim it. “What do you want me to do, Stevie? Go down there and ask if they could please pack up their special evil drills and leave the rest of them here so we can keep our jobs?”
“Nice.” Stevie shoved back from the table. “We’ve talked about this. The way you used to do things isn’t going to keep working. You can’t just shoot every problem in the face.”
“Come on.” Joe cleared his plate from the table and took it to the sink. “I don’t want to fight about this. But you know as well as I do that assholes like this don’t listen to reason. The only way to stop what they’re up to is to drive them out.”
“Whatever you decide, I’ll support you.” Stevie took Joe’s hands in her own. “I just want you to think about what you’re doing. Make a decision, and then act. Don’t kick off a fight just because it’s what you’re used to doing.”
Joe squeezed Stevie’s hands. The pain in her eyes killed his smartass response before it could reach his lips. He could see himself reflected in there and understood what she was asking. His choices were far from simple, and he couldn’t see the end of the roads they’d take him down.
“You’re right. I have to decide.”
He just hoped his choices didn’t destroy everything he was trying to save.
25
Monday morning found Joe hunkered behind the wheel of his truck, face hidden below the brim of his Stetson. He needed information, and he reckoned the best place to get it was from folks he knew. Near as Joe could tell, half the men in Pitchfork worked for Amogen now, he just had to find a few of them and see what he could shake loose.
Work crews had filled up their trucks at the Flying J the last time Joe was there, it was a good bet they’d be at the pumps again. There was an empty parking spot well back from the restaurant, and Joe backed the pickup into it and left the old motor chugging to keep the heater blowing. January in Pitchfork was cold and getting colder every year. People in other parts of the country bitched about global warming, but there was none of that going on in this neck of the woods. Joe sipped the cup of tongue-scorching coffee he’d brewed at home. “Come on, assholes. Let’s get this started.”
It was close to eight before the first trucks rolled into the lot and eased up to the gas pumps. The crews spilled out, three guys from each truck, slapping their thighs and swinging their arms against the morning chill. The drivers worked the pumps while the others headed inside to get coffee, doughnuts, cigarettes, or whatever else they needed to get through the day.
Joe threw the truck into gear and rolled up to an empty pump near the Amogen crews. The drivers looked bored and tired, their hard hats hiding their faces in deep shadow. Joe hopped out of the truck and nodded to the men, trying to get a read on them. “How’s the drilling?” he asked one of the drivers.
The guy, short and solid, shrugged. “It’s a living. Wish it wasn’t so fucking cold up in those hills.”
Joe laughed, gave the guy an agreeable nod. “I hear that. Seems like it gets colder every year.”
One of the drivers chimed in. “Maybe it’s just our bones getting older.”
They all had a good laugh at that, and Joe found himself warming to the working stiffs. They were just good old boys doing what they could to make ends meet. He almost felt bad about questioning them. Almost. “Gotta be better than working nights, am I right?”
That didn’t draw any chuckles or rueful smiles. It did get him suspicious glances. The oldest of the drivers shrugged. “We don’t work nights.”
Joe didn’t like it when peopled lied to him. His opinion of the three truck drivers dropped a few notches. “Really? Because someone’s been drilling at night. I see the lights sometimes, when I’m out driving.”
More glances, this time directed at one another. The drivers did not like where this was headed. “You’d have to ask someone else about that. We’re day crew.”
Joe rubbed his chin and raised his head, letting the sun fall across his face. “Care to point me toward the night crew?”
He saw the lights of recognition flare in the shortest driver’s eyes. “Ah, shit. We gotta go.”
Joe’s grin was wrapped in barbed wire. “Hey, we’re just having a friendly chat here.”
The short guy fidgeted with his keys. The other drivers were moving back from him, unsure of what they should do. “Jesus, Marshal. We got nothin’ bad to say about the company.”
Joe nodded, leaned back against his truck. “I’m not trying to hassle you boys. Just looking into some things.”
