slams and cheerful whistling fills the air, another bloody hymn. Two minutes later, he turns up in the automobile graveyard, a big shit-eating smile on his face and a girl over his shoulder. Now he has five again.
He stops and beams at them all, chained in their rusty cars. “Rejoice!” he says. “Rejoice for now we are ready to spread the Lord our God’s word!” And then he launches into a crackly baritone, singing about how great Jesus is and how he’s going to save them all in the end.
But Laura gets the feeling any help from the Lord is going to come too late to do them any damn good. Unless He smites the Bastard down with a big bolt of lightning right now.
The Bastard comes to the end of his uplifting hymn and gives them a salute, before carrying his new girl into a long, low barn that sits at the side of the field. There’s no door, just a hole into the darkness inside.
The singing starts again, but this time it’s all distorted – echoing inside the barn.
And then there’s screaming. High-pitched, terrified screaming.
Chapter 15
The Fish Trap Lounge, Des Moines
It’s been nearly an hour and we’ve still not heard anything from the big guy in the Hawkeyes jacket. Henry’s on his third beer with a bourbon chaser. Jack’s nursing a grudge and a soda, staring up at a rerun of some baseball game on a crappy little television above the bar. And I’m giving myself an ulcer from drinking way too much coffee.
The bar-tender comes round again to see if we want anything, and Henry goes for another beer, even though it’s only eleven in the morning.
“Take it easy,” I say when the guy’s gone away again, “you’re going to be shit-faced by lunchtime.”
Henry looks at me. “We’re not talking about this again.”
“I’m just saying, is all.”
“Yeah, well, don’t.” But at least he makes this beer last.
I’m thinking about ordering more hot wings, or maybe a burger, when the guy in the jacket comes back. “This favour,” he says, sitting at our table, “it got anything to do with Mr Jones’s daughter going missing?”
Henry takes a swig at his bottle of Bud. “You got a name and address for us?”
But Jacket Man ain’t put off that easy. “I need to know if this is about that Sawbones guy.”
There’s silence for a moment, as Henry transfers his attention from the beer to the guy. “You got a name for us, or not?”
Jacket Man stares at him. “I got four brown Winnebagos in Polk County with National Guard plates.” He takes a folded bit of paper out of his pocket and places it on the table. “It wasn’t easy getting hold of these.”
Henry nods. “Favours for favours.”
“That’s why I gotta know – is this about that Sawbones guy?”
Jesus, he just won’t let it rest.
“Yeah,” says Henry, picking up the bit of paper, “you and me going to have a problem?”
The guy shakes his head. “You tell Mr Jones this info’s compliments of Bill Luciano. Some sick bastard snatches his kid we’re going to do everything we can.” He nods at the list in Henry’s hand. “You want a couple of guys to help?”
Henry stands and slips the note into his inside pocket. “You thank Mr Luciano for the offer, but we got some things we need to do that it’s probably best he don’t know about, if you know what I mean. Mr Jones won’t forget the help.”
“Any time.” He pulls a business card out of his wallet. “Anything you need, you give me a call.”
We say thanks and head out into the sunshine.
The first address turns up a little old lady with a filthy Winnebago sitting round the back of her crumbling wooden house. She says the motor home belonged to her son, but he got himself shot in Afghanistan, do we want to buy it?
We don’t.
Address number two belongs to a couple of junkies, living in a crappy motel with hot and cold running cockroaches. They got a pair of little girls, playing in the car park out front, wearing nothing but filthy underwear. Not even
He stops and beams at them all, chained in their rusty cars. “Rejoice!” he says. “Rejoice for now we are ready to spread the Lord our God’s word!” And then he launches into a crackly baritone, singing about how great Jesus is and how he’s going to save them all in the end.
But Laura gets the feeling any help from the Lord is going to come too late to do them any damn good. Unless He smites the Bastard down with a big bolt of lightning right now.
The Bastard comes to the end of his uplifting hymn and gives them a salute, before carrying his new girl into a long, low barn that sits at the side of the field. There’s no door, just a hole into the darkness inside.
The singing starts again, but this time it’s all distorted – echoing inside the barn.
And then there’s screaming. High-pitched, terrified screaming.
Chapter 15
The Fish Trap Lounge, Des Moines
It’s been nearly an hour and we’ve still not heard anything from the big guy in the Hawkeyes jacket. Henry’s on his third beer with a bourbon chaser. Jack’s nursing a grudge and a soda, staring up at a rerun of some baseball game on a crappy little television above the bar. And I’m giving myself an ulcer from drinking way too much coffee.
The bar-tender comes round again to see if we want anything, and Henry goes for another beer, even though it’s only eleven in the morning.
“Take it easy,” I say when the guy’s gone away again, “you’re going to be shit-faced by lunchtime.”
Henry looks at me. “We’re not talking about this again.”
“I’m just saying, is all.”
“Yeah, well, don’t.” But at least he makes this beer last.
I’m thinking about ordering more hot wings, or maybe a burger, when the guy in the jacket comes back. “This favour,” he says, sitting at our table, “it got anything to do with Mr Jones’s daughter going missing?”
Henry takes a swig at his bottle of Bud. “You got a name and address for us?”
But Jacket Man ain’t put off that easy. “I need to know if this is about that Sawbones guy.”
There’s silence for a moment, as Henry transfers his attention from the beer to the guy. “You got a name for us, or not?”
Jacket Man stares at him. “I got four brown Winnebagos in Polk County with National Guard plates.” He takes a folded bit of paper out of his pocket and places it on the table. “It wasn’t easy getting hold of these.”
Henry nods. “Favours for favours.”
“That’s why I gotta know – is this about that Sawbones guy?”
Jesus, he just won’t let it rest.
“Yeah,” says Henry, picking up the bit of paper, “you and me going to have a problem?”
The guy shakes his head. “You tell Mr Jones this info’s compliments of Bill Luciano. Some sick bastard snatches his kid we’re going to do everything we can.” He nods at the list in Henry’s hand. “You want a couple of guys to help?”
Henry stands and slips the note into his inside pocket. “You thank Mr Luciano for the offer, but we got some things we need to do that it’s probably best he don’t know about, if you know what I mean. Mr Jones won’t forget the help.”
“Any time.” He pulls a business card out of his wallet. “Anything you need, you give me a call.”
We say thanks and head out into the sunshine.
The first address turns up a little old lady with a filthy Winnebago sitting round the back of her crumbling wooden house. She says the motor home belonged to her son, but he got himself shot in Afghanistan, do we want to buy it?
We don’t.
Address number two belongs to a couple of junkies, living in a crappy motel with hot and cold running cockroaches. They got a pair of little girls, playing in the car park out front, wearing nothing but filthy underwear. Not even
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