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  The trooper hesitated. “We’d look stupid if the man had some sort of natural accident and is bleeding to death in there while we stand around out here shaking in our boots. Let’s check it out.”

  The men stepped up to the porch, one going left, the other turning right. They looked in through the windows, seeing the blood on the floor, the overturned chairs, and the shattered rear window. No sign of Eddie Brown or anyone else.

  Cautiously, they made their way around the small cabin, meeting at the rear of the building.

  “Nothing,” they both said.

  They checked the ground. The heavy rains had washed away any tracks and also the blood from Eddie’s wounds. Then they saw the broken small limbs and uprooted bushes left behind when Eddie ran into the woods.

  The woods loomed dark and suddenly very unfriendly before the lawmen.

  And neither wanted to enter those woods. It was more the use of common sense—not knowing what they might be up against-than fear.

  “Let’s call it in,” the deputy said.

  But before they could reach their cars, they heard the sounds of fast-approaching cars coming up the road toward the cabin.

  Sheriff Garrett, Captain Taylor, and agent Dodge of the FBI.

  “What’d you have?” Dan asked his deputy.

  The deputy explained, briefly.

  Dan nodded. “Let’s go in.”

  Inside the cabin, Dan’s eyes followed the drying trail of blood from the front door to the shattered window. He saw the paw prints clearly in the dried blood, along with the small print of tennis shoes. “Don’t get any of that blood on you,” he warned the others. “It might be, probably is, highly contagious.”

  “But not airborne?” Dodge asked.

  “Not according to Doctor Goodson and the men from CDC.”

  Outside, Dan said, “Seal it off, Billy. Captain Taylor, can you get those troopers you talked about in here?”

  “How many do you want?”

  “I don’t know. As many as it takes.”

  “Twenty-five to start with?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “They’ll be here within the hour.” The Virginia Highway Patrol can place one hundred combat ready troopers anywhere in the state within one hour.

  “I can probably get a few more Bureau people in here quickly,” Dodge said.

  “I would appreciate all the help I can get,” Dan said.

  “You got your speech all prepared for the press?” Taylor asked.

  Dan shook his head. “I wish.”

  “I don’t mean to take anything away from you, Dan,” the Bureau man said. “But I’ve probably had more experience fielding questions from reporters. If you like, I’ll handle it.”

  It was tempting for Dan. Just dump it in someone else’s lap. God, it was tempting. “No,” he said. “It’s my county.”

  The news of the newly found body spread through the county with the speed of that much talked about wildfire. Dan had ordered his people not to talk to anyone about the dead, but he was making no effort to hide the fact that a killer, or killers, was loose and on the rampage in Ruger County.

  Whether or not to tell the press about the possibilities that one or both of the madmen, or madwomen, were carriers of a deadly “virus,” as Doctor Goodson called it, was solely in Dan’s lap. He talked with all concerned about it.

  “We don’t even know what it is they’re carrying,” Chuck said. “Every time I try to think about it, I come up short. It’s like a science fiction movie. How the hell would you explain it?”

  Dan didn’t know.

  “I’d dump it in the CDC’s lap,” Sergeant Langway said.

  Captain Taylor’s smile was wan. “You’ll be captain someday, Scott.”

  And he left it at that, leaving Scott to read whatever into his remark.

  “If you tell the people that these . . . murderers can turn them into mummies,” a deputy said, “they’re not going to believe you unless you show them the body of the dead engineer and the arm of the other guy. Then we’ll have a damn circus on our hands.”

  Dan looked at agent Dodge. “What do your people say about it?”

  “Off the record and it didn’t come from me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sit on it for a few days.”

  All present agreed they should do that. And all knew they were taking a terrible chance.

  Reporters from Richmond, Charlottesville, Petersburg, and Lynchburg were gathered at the sheriff’s office when Dan opened the news briefing. Among them Mille Smith.

  “Looks like when bad luck strikes a place, it sometimes decides to hang around for a while.” Dan told the men and women. “And we’re having our share of bad luck. I have not prepared a statement; so I’ll wing this as best I can.”

  Then it hit him, plunging him into numbing silence. Eddie Brown had reported seeing a small girl and a cat in a cave inside Eden Mountain back when he was lost, years ago. That was before Dan had joined the department. Was there a connection? God, surely not. There couldn’t be. The girl would be in her twenties now.

  Dan mentally filed that and got down to business. He kept his fingers crossed that no one would ask for an exhumation of the graves of Billy Mack and Mary Louise. Both mothers were in bad enough shape as it was. Seeing the bodies might well kill one of them.

  “Here is what we know for sure,” Dan began. “You all are aware of the deaths of the teenagers. No need to go into that. You’ve all carried the stories. We believe that the miner who was killed inside Eden Mountain was killed by the same party or parties. He was the first to be killed. He probably surprised them in the cave and was attacked. We’re assuming it was two . . . people.” He stumbled over that.

  “Why are you assuming it was two people, Sheriff?” a reporter asked.

  “Because the marks on the bodies seem to indicate more than one person was involved.”

  “We know the kids were brutally murdered, Sheriff. But we don’t know how. What kind of marks?”

  Here it is. Dan kept his expression as bland as possible. “The bodies we found had been beaten and punctured with some sort of ... multi-tined instrument.” Not exactly a lie; just stretching the truth a bit. “And we found another body this morning bearing the same sort of marks.”

  “Another body, Sheriff?”

  “Another body, a white male, not from this area, was found this morning. Murdered. Same M.O. We’ll release his name when we locate and inform the next of kin. And,” he sighed, “another resident of Ruger County is missing. All signs seem to indicate that this person also met with some sort of foul play. I will not release the name until we know for sure.”

  Mille stood up. A young veteran of countless press conferences and briefings, she could feel the hostility emanating from Sheriff Dan Garrett and the other cops in the room. All directed toward her, and her alone. It pissed her off even more. “How about the other man, Sheriff?”

  “What other man, Ms. Smith?”

  “The other miner.”

  “He had an accident in the parking lot just below the mountain. He lost the lower part of his arm. His left arm. He’s in the hospital in very serious condition. Infection, shock, and loss of blood.”

  “He was not attacked by these so-called ’unknown parties?’ ” Mille asked, the sarcasm heavy in her tone.

  “I can give you an unequivocal no to that question, Ms. Smith. He was not attacked by the party or parties we seek in connection with the other murders.”

  “I’d like for him to tell me that, Sheriff. When can we see this man?”

  “You will have to speak with Doctor Quinn Ramsey about that.”

  Mille stood her ground, refusing to yield the floor.

  “Sheriff,” Mille said, “I overheard you and some other officers and men talking in the hospital. You were all talking about being bitten. Being bitten by what, Sheriff? And what did Doctor Ramsey mean by, and I’m quoting the doctor directly here: ’His action seems to have stopped the
aging process.’ End quote. Whose action, Sheriff? Were you talking about the miner who had the so-called accident? What’s really going on here, Sheriff?”

  Dan didn’t falter; his facial expression was neutral. Closed. “Exactly what I am trying to relate to you all, Ms. Smith. What you overheard while you were eavesdropping was police business, and if, or when, I feel it necessary to divulge that information, you will be among the first to know. Next question.”

  “I resent the implication that I was eavesdropping, Sheriff!”

  “I don’t particularly care what you resent, Ms. Smith. Right now, I’ve got more important matters on my mind than your ruffled feathers. When the citizens of this county, those men and women who live and work and pay the taxes here, tell me that I have to answer to you, that’s when I’ll resign. Now please sit down and have the good manners to allow your colleagues to ask some questions. Unlike you, Ms. Smith, they represent the people of this area, and are not seeking sensationalism.”

  Mille sat. But she was so angry she could scarcely contain her inner ragings. She knew she was flushed; she could feel the heat in her face.

  Goddamn smart-assed, country-redneck-pig! she thought. You’ll pay for this!

  Her spleen silently vented, Mille forced a very sweet smile on her pretty face and demurely folded her hands in her lap.

  The other reporters looked first at Mille, then at Sheriff Garrett. Unlike Mille, they knew Dan Garrett’s background: Graduated with honors from the university; Army intelligence for three years; decorated FBI agent, deputy, then sheriff of Ruger County. Well-liked and respected. And one hard-nosed son of a bitch when he had to be. Sheriff Dan Garrett would take no crap from anybody, anytime.

  A reporter stood up. Dan nodded at him. “Are you gathering all the law officers we’ve seen here for a manhunt, Sheriff?”

  “That is correct. My chief deputy is meeting with them now, and I’ll be joining them as soon as this briefing is concluded.”

  Conclude it right now as far as I’m concerned, you jerk! Mille fumed.

  “Sheriff, do you have any thoughts about the mental condition of the people you’re after?”

  “After seeing what was done to the bodies, my first thoughts were that the people who did that were extremely savage. They are the most brutal killings that I have ever seen. As to whether they are insane—” He shrugged. “—that will be up to a psychiatrist to determine.”

  You’re lying, Sheriff, Mille fumed. You’re lying, the state police are lying, the doctors are lying, and when the FBI opens their mouths, they’re going to be lying, too. I’m sitting here right on top of one whale of a story, and I’m going to pry open this can of worms. And when I do, I’m going to wipe the floor with you, Garrett.

  She thought: I’ve got to get in touch with Kenny Allen. I need somebody to do some legwork, and he’s the best. I’ll call him just as soon as this farce is over.

  Kenny Allen was the same age as Mille. They had gone through school together, from grade school through college. They shared many things in common; two things above all else: they both hated cops; any type of authority figure brought out the viciousness in them. And they both felt the press was the guardian of everything fine and decent and moral. It didn’t make any difference who they hurt getting a story. Their method of news-gathering was this: everybody has some dirt in their past—let’s find it. It doesn’t make any difference who gets hurt in the process, or whether the dirt has anything to do with the story at hand. Anybody who gets in the way of the press gets kicked in the mouth.

  Mille forced her attention back to Cowboy Dan Garrett and his lying mouth.

  “Anyone have any further questions?” Dan asked.

  Yeah, Mille thought. Where do you want the flowers sent? ’Cause when I get through with you, you won’t be able to get a job anywhere ...

  7

  Sheriff’s deputies highway patrolmen, FBI personnel, and selected volunteers combed the countryside of Ruger County for days. They found two pot patches, a small cache of illegal automatic weapons, a still that hadn’t been in operation for more than thirty years, two illegal aliens from El Salvador, one whore house, the rusted remains of a stolen car that had been missing for two years-and scared the living hell out of a deacon of a local church who was pumping away at the wife of another deacon.

  And that was all the lawmen turned up.

  No more bodies were found. No trace of Eddie Brown could be found. And no trace of the people responsible for the brutal deaths.

  Nothing.

  “Nothing,” Dan told Vonne over supper. “I’ve got to believe they’ve left the county.”

  Friday evening, and Carl was home from school, his friend Mike with him.

  “I don’t mean to lighten what has happened,” Carl said. “But there hasn’t been this much activity in Ruger County since Mrs. Zigler ran off with that truck driver.”

  Dan laughed, and the laughter felt good, the tension gradually leaving the man. Vonne had fried chicken, made lots of mashed potatoes, a big bowl of gravy, biscuits from scratch, and fixed corn on the cob. Dan had pitched in, making his famous (more or less) deep-dish apple pie.

  Mike was digging in. “Don’t eat this way at my house,” he said, wiping a bit of gravy from his chin. “Our cook wouldn’t think of frying chicken. We’d have broiled chicken breasts a la poo doo, or something like that. I try to avoid eating at home whenever possible.”

  The Garretts knew it wasn’t the food that kept Mike as far as decently possible from his parents’ home. He did not get along with mother and father. Mike was as common as an old shoe. His parents, both of them, were relatively newly rich, and they, as the saying goes, liked to put on the dog. Mike’s only passion in life—other than girls and food, not necessarily in that order-was archaeology, and he was brilliant on the subject. But his parents would not hear of Mike majoring in that. Hideous thing! Grubbing about in the dirt like a common laborer. That just wouldn’t do for their son. What would the neighbors think?

  The neighbors thought the Pearsons were obnoxious and obvious now. The neighbors would have applauded Mike’s choice of vocation.

  So Mike’s parents insisted in Mike majoring in business and then going into the family business. Consequently, Mike’s grades were just barely above passing. He said he was getting his own degree in his chosen field by reading everything on the subject he could get his hands on. When he came into his inheritance, then he would major in what he wanted to.

  “No word about that poor Eddie Brown?” Vonne asked.

  “Nothing,” Dan said. “But if he’s alive, it’ll be a miracle.”

  “The manhunt over, Dad?” Carl asked.

  “Pretty much so. Most of the troopers and extra FBI people have left.”

  “Eddie Brown,” Vonne said. “What did I once hear about him?”

  Dan knew. He kept his mouth shut.

  “Oh, yes! Wasn’t he the one who insisted he saw something strange when lost in Eden Mountain?” Vonne asked.

  “I believe so,” Dan said, conscious of young eyes on him.

  “What did he see?” Carl asked.

  Carrie wasn’t paying any attention. All this stuff bored her.

  “A young girl and a cat. Both asleep. He tried to wake them, but couldn’t,” Dan said. “I just recalled that,” he added.

  Nobody listening believed him.

  The young men exchanged glances.

  Dan caught the looks and said, “You two know something I might need to know?”

  Carrie stood and asked to be excused. “After you help me clear the table and do the dishes,” Vonne sat her back down.

  No argument from Carrie. The kids did as they were told, when they were told to do it. Vonne and Dan had instilled their values in the young people, and stuck with that teaching regardless of what other parents did.

  Dan and the boys helped clear the table and stack the dishes, then went outside to sit on the front porch. There, under Carl’s prodding, Mike told Dan all
he could recall about the strange religion and the stories about twins being born, sisters, a human female, and a female cat.

  “And these stories have persisted all these thousands of years?” Dan asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Mike said. “There probably is some modicum of truth in them. By that I mean a group of people who did worship cats thousands of years ago. But like so many myths, they’ve been embellished considerably down through the years.”

  “And they were supposed to have supernatural powers?” Dan asked.

  “Yes. And . . .” He paused.

  “Something?” Dan asked.

  “I’m trying to recall it, Mr. Garrett. Ah! Yes. The cat people were supposedly somehow aligned with the devil. Do you want me to see if I can find more about this group, sir?”

  “Can you do it without jeopardizing your grades?”

  Mike’s laughter rang merrily in the night. “Mr. Garrett, my grades are the least of my worries. Ah!” he said, holding up one finger and narrowing his eyes conspiratorially. “Now I get it. You’re thinking these crazies might have found out about the old religion and are practicing it here, right?”

  That wasn’t what Dan thought at all, only what he wanted Mike to believe, and the young man bought it. “That’s it, Mike. Will you help me? On the QT, of course.”

  “Our lips are sealed, Sheriff,” Mike said, punching Carl in the ribs. “Right, my good fellow?”

  Carl sighed.

  * * *

  At a motel in Richmond, Mille met with Kenny Allen. Since the pullout of the troopers and the FBI super-pigs, press interest in the mysterious happenings in Ruger County had waned. But Mille was still feeling the sting of Sheriff Dan Garrett’s irreverence toward what she considered the untouchable press corps. The fact that most of the other reporters present that day of her rebuff had found it all rather amusing had not entered her mind.

  The First Amendment, done in beautiful calligraphy, hung in her bedroom in her apartment in Washington. Mille took that amendment very seriously, and read into it much more than the founding fathers had intended. Very seriously. Religiously. Fanatically. If Mille had been a praying person, she would have built an alter, with the First as the centerpiece.