Thirty Days Hath September

By Frank Robinson II

Thirty Days Hath September is a dark mystery/suspense novel by newcomer Frank B. Robinson II that will grab you from the beginning, shake you along the way, and leave you gasping for breath at its shocking conclusion. The story takes place during the last six days of September 1976 in the small town of Black Creek in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Western North Carolina. The story’s main character is a sometimes drifter named Alex Madrid, who is temporarily employed at a small college as a security guard.
When coed Miranda Toliver is found brutally murdered on campus, Alex is thrust into a dramatic series of events that sets the stage for the next six days of his life. Initially, a mentally-handicapped teenager found at the scene is conveniently accused of the girl’s murder. Alex, however, is troubled by doubts as to the boy’s guilt, and is determined to uncover the truth. At the same time, another student, September Jamerson, disappears from the college, but based upon rumors authorities assume that she is simply a runaway. Julie Kingston, a local newspaper reporter convinces Madrid that the two events are somehow related.
Enter “The Wizard,” a maniacal adversary from Madrid’s past, considered by most a genius, who engineers a masterful escape from a Georgia maximum security prison, and shows up in Madrid’s backyard with his cohort, Charlie Blades (once described as “a man morphing into a troll”). The two have come to Black Creek to settle a score with Madrid, and the ensuing struggle will take Alex to places he has only envisioned in his darkest nightmares. CAUTION: Contains graphic material that be unsuitable for minors and some readers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank Robinson II
• Release date: Feb 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466053069

Frank Robinson II

Frank B. Robinson II grew up in Western North Carolina, where he resides with his wife, Nancy, and their four dogs (including Sasha, a Bull Mastiff, pictured above with the author). Frank is an independent businessman, a student of the acoustic guitar, and holds a black belt in Shorinryu-Shorinkan karate. This is his first novel. A second novel, The Circle: A Moses Wolf Novel, is scheduled for release sometime in 2013.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Black Creek, North Carolina

September 24, 1976—1:57 a.m.

The kid was stoned.

Not the "…I dig the colorful clothes you wear, and the way the sunlight plays upon your hair…" kind of stoned. He was all the way on the other side of the dial—Paranoid City—where ominous shadows line both your path and your mind. The place where no one hears you scream—and even if they do—no one cares.

Alex Madrid and his companion watched him from the shadows—silent and statue-still. Hard and unblinking, they seemed oblivious to the cold rain that had encapsulated Black Creek for most of the last three days.

In the darkness, the kid felt his way along the uneven sidewalk—approached Black Creek from the shabby end of town—where the tax base was low, the streetlights non-existent. The waterlogged cuffs of his flared-legged jeans hung from his lanky frame, scraped the concrete as he walked. The sound—like a poorly calibrated metronome—marked him in the darkness.

The throbbing in his head was like a wild-assed monkey wailing on a timpani drum. The pot and the alcohol he could handle. This was something else. He thought back to the party, to the girl with the tight t-shirt and no bra. She’d handed him something—offered him a wink—told him to take it—said he wouldn’t be sorry. A short time later she had vanished—and now all that remained of her was confusion and a sense of dread.

The kid sloshed his way towards the pair—maybe forty feet away.

In the darkness, Alex Madrid and his companion tracked the kid, like hawks on a bunny. Fifteen feet away.

Ten feet. Three steps from the darkness to the sidewalk. The pair could cover that distance in just over a second. It would take only another moment to…

But the silent hawks let the stoned bunny pass. And that should have been the end of it.

An archaic phone booth stood just a few feet beyond the boundary of the run-down park. As the kid stepped next to it, the phone jangled a shrill scream—the effect like shards of glass on exposed nerves. The kid yelped, stumbled back off of the sidewalk—fell hard and awkwardly into the empty street. Yelped again.

The phone rang a second time.

Sprawled in a puddle of cold water, the kid stared wildly, tried to fight through the fog in his head. Who is calling me? How the hell do they know where I am?

A third ring—no less piercing. The kid watched the pair float from the shadows. Each scarier than the other—a man and a beast—a big freaking beast whose breath was like smoke in the cold air. The man’s face remained hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat. The kid heard a sound—something between a whine and a whimper—like a scared child, or a trapped animal. Then the slow realization—the pitiful utterance belonged to him. The phone rang again.

From beneath the hat, the man spoke. His tone was icy—undiplomatic. Take off, he growled.

The kid struggled clumsily to his feet, stumbled—caught himself. The asphalt tore a chunk of skin from the palm of his hand. He stood, teetering like a man on a tightrope—then he began to run. In reality—little more than a spastic jog. He tried to focus on the sparse streetlights a couple of blocks away. Over his shoulder, from the darkness, he heard the phone ring one last time.

Alex Madrid stepped into the booth, placed the cold, wet receiver next to his ear. Dial tone. He clinched his jaw, cradled the receiver—waited. It seemed like a long time. After a couple of minutes, the phone jangled back to life. Madrid picked up after the second ring.

There was a pause, then a male voice—cautious.

That you?

Yeah, Madrid answered.

Another pause—this one a bit longer. Then the voice, small and scratchy, said, The Wizard is loose. Syrupy anxiety coated each syllable.

Madrid closed the glass door of the booth—triggered an anemic overhead light. Writings and doodles, like modern-day hieroglyphics, were scratched and scrawled over much of the cubicle. Loose how? Madrid asked, as he looked over one of the messages. If he was interested in the best blowjob in town, he should call Debbie. Someone had been thoughtful enough to leave her number.

Es-es-escaped, the voice replied.

The caller was Nick Vorcheck. And Nicky was easy to read. He stuttered when he needed drugs, which was almost always. The more he stuttered, the more frustrated he became. When that happened, his well-developed vocabulary whittled down to mostly four-letter words.

Escaped how? Madrid asked as he continued to read the graffiti in the booth.

Vorcheck’s reply was rapid-fire. Who-the-hell knows? If anybody knows, nobody sa-sa-saying. He v-v-v-anished. Like a g-g-g-ghost or somethin’.

Take a deep breath, Nicky, Madrid said with vague encouragement. Just tell me what you know—easy on the drama.

One minute he was there. Th-th-th-then he isn’t. That’s what I know. They got d-d-dogs on the ground and helicopters in the sky.

Anybody else escape?

N-n-not that I heard about. Guy’s supposed to be some k-k-k-kind of genius, ya’ know. That’s why they call him ‘The Wizard’.

Yeah, that’s what I hear, Madrid replied. He had finished his reading. Most of the other names in the booth were guys—offering basically the same service as Debbie. Anybody get hurt? he asked.

I d-don’t know. Vorcheck answered in an annoyed tone.

Madrid snapped back. It’s important, Nicky.

I-I-I didn’t hear about no-no-no-body getting’ hurt, Vorcheck responded defensively.

Suddenly claustrophobic, Madrid cracked open the door of the booth. The overhead light flickered to darkness. He stepped outside, the receiver still in his hand. The rain had eased to a steady drizzle. Madrid looked down Middle Street. The kid was long gone. He took a deep breath of cool air—let it out slowly. Two o’clock in the morning—he had Black Creek to himself. It wasn’t the first time Madrid had experienced this small mountain town at that hour. But the last time was twenty years ago. He wondered if Black Creek had been any less dreary then, or simply his perspective brighter.

Madrid held the receiver by his side. From the other end of the line, he could hear Vorcheck’s voice patter along, distant and tinny. He raised it back to his ear in time to hear Nick say, You don’t sound so worried.

Madrid thought for a moment, and then replied. I try not to worry too much about yesterday or tomorrow.

Pr-pr-probably goin’ to kill you, Vorcheck said, his voice up nearly half an octave. I-I m-mean, you-you know—he’s probably goin’ to tr-tr-tr-try to k-k-kill you.

I get where you’re going with this, Nicky. Madrid reigned in his irritation. He wasn’t ready to run Vorcheck off just yet. Nicky might come back into play. Stranger things had happened.

The man on the other end of the line said quietly—apologetically, I didn’t mean to piss you off, Alex.

You didn’t, Nicky, Madrid lied.

So-so we’re ok-k-k-kay?

Remains to be seen, Nicky, Madrid countered. I’m going to check your information. If it’s good, the money will be where I told you.

Panic flooded his tone. G-g-goddamnit. You know its g-g-good, man. This is Nicky. I’ve never…

Madrid cut him short. Then you won’t have a problem when I check, he said in a tone without compromise. Pick it up at noon tomorrow—don’t come early—don’t be late.

Th-thanks, man, Vorcheck said. I can really use it.

Madrid considered telling Nicholas Vorcheck not to put the payoff in his arm. But Alex Madrid understood the futility of negotiating with addiction. Instead, he said in a hard voice, "Be smart and keep your mouth shut, Nick. Don’t get greedy and don’t try to play this from both sides. I’ll find out. And I promise you—it won’t be worth it."

I’d never do that to you, man. Vorcheck’s’ words arrived in the dark phone booth without a hint of conviction. N-n-never even occurred to me.

I’m sure it didn’t, Nicky, Madrid replied, matching Vorcheck’s tone.

Almost cheerful, Nicholas added, You be careful, man.

Yeah, Madrid answered, not cheerful at all. You too.

It was like The Wizard disappeared into thin air, man, Vorcheck said with child-like awe. Just walked out of that prison—like f-f-f-fuckin’ magic.

Madrid cradled the phone. The deal was done. Fatigue washed over him. He rolled his thick neck from side to side. It sounded like a fat man stepping on bubble wrap.

The big dog sat outside the booth, continued to look down the street, oblivious to the rain. Slowly, he turned—looked up at Madrid, as if expecting to be apprised. Madrid obliged. The Wizard is like magic, Toto, he said.

The dog tilted his massive head roughly twelve degrees.

Let’s go home, Madrid said tiredly—resisted telling the big mutt …there’s no place like home….

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Two hundred miles away, Nick Vorcheck shuffled from one leg to the other. His skin had taken on a life of its own. Itchy—crawling over him like a thousand worms. He rifled through his pockets, finally found the scrap of paper in his dirty jeans. The number, once neatly printed in blue ink—was now smudged but still legible. He fed coins into the phone; let his index finger travel around the rotary dial. After the eighth ring, someone picked up—a thick voice laden with sleep and irritation.

What?

It’s N-n-n-nicky.

It’s two o’clock in the morning, Vorcheck. What the hell do you want?

You said to call when I made contact with Madrid.

You got the number?

Yeah, but I got better than that. I tracked it down. It’s a phone booth in Black Creek, North Carolina. It’s a little hick town up in the mountains.

What the hell is Madrid doin’ there? the voice on the other end asked.

Vorcheck answered somberly. My guess is he’s hiding from you.

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Chapter 2

September 24th—10:14 p.m.

To the west, beyond the crest of the Blue Ridge Mountains, a thunderstorm gathered power. On the small porch, in a chair with a sagging cane seat, the woman rocked slowly. The decking boards under the chair creaked in protest of her substantial weight. From above, red neon washed her in a hellish glow. Her eyes stayed fixed on the horizon, her large pupils like watery black pits. The neon had once spelled OFFICE, but the last three letters had burned out. The effect was a little like the closing shot from a B-grade horror movie.

A cool breeze snaked through the valley, rushed over her corpulent bare arms. A shiver triggered from deep inside her. Above her head, wind chimes tinkled urgently—a tardy warning—too late to be of use.

The woman lifted her plastic mug—vodka flooded her mouth. The alcohol, warm in her throat, did nothing to relieve her dread. She had been sober for three years, three months, fourteen days, and six hours. Then Alex Madrid had walked into the motel office. The silver bell attached to the door had remained strangely quiet. She had been watching the local news, waiting to see who was going to be on with Johnny Carson—wishing she had the cash for a color TV. He’d stood motionless, watching her from the far side of the worn Formica counter. A lyric from a Kris Kristofferson song had flashed in her head—flashed as clearly as the lightning she now watched …hidin’ intentions of evil, under the smile of a saint…

Words were passed—money changed hands. It had only taken a few moments. Madrid had been neither forceful nor threatening with his request. It was more cash than she’d seen in a long time—Ben Franklin and a bunch of dead presidents. An hour after the exchange, her sobriety had evaporated. That had been a week ago, almost to the minute.

Through bleary eyes, she spotted another flash—a moment later, heard the faint, angry rumble of thunder. Clearly a sign—an apparition of doom. It had visited her before—three times in her thirty-six years. It always began differently—always ended the same. The vision was a prelude to trouble—the kind of trouble where people died.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Dicky Padrick hadn’t picked up on the approaching storm—but he didn’t pick up on a lot of things. Dicky Padrick was slow—short-bus slow. He switched on his Boy Scout flashlight, sent the beam around his dark bedroom. The light washed over the poster of a red swimsuit-clad Farrah Fawcett. There was a set of bunk beds. Dicky slept on the bottom bunk—no one had ever slept on the top. The beam came to rest on the framed pictures of his family hanging on the wall. His mother and father were standing on the beach smiling back at him. They were dead. Dicky liked looking at the picture, but it made him sad. There was also a picture of his older sister. She was pretty, but she had moved away. Dicky missed her, too—maybe missed her the most. There was no picture of Dicky’s older brother in the collection. But two doors down the hall, he was sleeping.

Dicky switched off the light and waited. From the hallway outside his door, the grandfather clock ticked along, dividing time onto neat, equal segments. The flashlight was on again. He inventoried the equipment he’d laid out on the floor. A Boy Scout pocketknife; he might need it for protection. A small pair of binoculars he had borrowed from his brother; they would be good for looking in windows. Dicky had included his inhaler—in case he got too excited.

Quietly, Dicky loaded the pack—shrugged it onto his soft, round shoulders. With practiced touch, he slid open his bedroom window—poked his head outside. The wind offered a cool greeting. Once on the ground, he wished he had worn his jacket. He considered going back inside, putting an end to the adventure. But now the desire was too strong. Dicky’s sister had called it natural sexual interest. A sheriff’s deputy had called it something else.

He worked his way through the neighborhood, traversed backyards until he reached the edge of the woods. Then he adjusted his pack and started down the wooded path toward the Black Creek College campus.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Miranda Toliver stopped dancing; the music continued to pound. She checked her watch again. Under the strobe lights, Mickey Mouse’s hands took on an epileptic quality. The Black Creek College Homecoming dance swirled about her like a human vortex—bodies gyrating—a brightly colored, kaleidoscopic mass. Bell-bottom jeans and leisure suits; patches of the Keep on Truckin guy and bandanas affixed to a variety of appendages; tie-dyed tee shirts, platform shoes, long dresses and really-short skirts.

Miranda was wearing her faded hip-huggers with a peace sign embroidered on the butt; a white peasant blouse was pulled down over tanned shoulders—just a hint of cleavage. A wide suede belt was knotted below the exposed naval of her flat stomach. The large room was warm, the residual effect of stage lights and moving bodies. Miranda felt a trickle of sweat slide down the curve of her spine. She began to thread her way toward the perimeter of the room. No one seemed to notice.

No one except Andy Frazier. On the perimeter of the manic energy, Andy Frazier studied her with obsessed fascination. In the shadows, on the other side of the room from the band, he felt himself growing hard.

Miranda was Andy’s vision of female perfection—thick blonde hair and deep blue eyes—an athletic body—a dimpled smile—with just a handful of freckles sprinkled strategically over an impish nose. Andy sat near her in two of his classes—but not too close—and always a couple of seats back. The first quarter was nearly a month old and he hadn’t yet worked up the courage to speak to her. He’d heard her laugh once. The sound had been intoxicating, like music from a rare instrument. The kind of instrument guys like Andy rarely got a chance to play.

"How can anyone so damned beautiful be dancing by herself?" For a second—a fleeting instant, Andy latched onto a delusion. He could step from the darkness. Miranda is waiting for me, he whispered, not loud enough for anyone else to hear.

It was the logic of an obsessed mind and from the safety of his dark corner, the concept seemed marginally plausible.

From the small stage, the local rock band continued to hammer on his dream. Self-loathing replaced the vision of Miranda’s body. The darker side of Andy Frazier’s obsession began to claw to the surface of his psyche. This wasn’t the time, he lamely assured himself. If he was going to take a chance, it would be a high risk—high reward.

His eyes followed Miranda as she wound her way through the crowd. Miranda reached the double doors at the back of the Student Center. They led to a hallway, to a flight of stairs, and to the rear entrance of the building. The band did their best to cover a Grand Funk Railroad tune. …I can feel the hands of a stranger and they’re tightening ‘round my throat. Heaven help me, heaven help me… Andy watched the doors close behind her.

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Chapter 3

September 24th—10:49 p.m.

The town of Black Creek was named for…well, Black Creek. But the body of water that separated the town of Black Creek from Black Creek College was not Black Creek. It was the Pisgah River. Black Creek, which emptied into the Pisgah River, was actually about a mile north of the town and the college. It was confusing.

On the college side of the Pisgah River, the Black Creek College campus was scattered across the valley floor—a smattering of brick and stone buildings. Most of the buildings had slate roofs—none were over four stories high. In the past hundred years, the college had seen good times and bad. The pendulum was currently arced deeply into the negative end of the cycle. Black Creek College was a small school. Intimate was the term recruiters most preferred—and getting more intimate every semester.

Near the center of Black Creek College campus a perfect circle of brick driveway surrounded a smaller circle of neatly trimmed grass. Some of the red bricks were inscribed with the names of financial donors—most were just bricks. In the center of the grass was a shabby-looking fountain—three tiers of badly stained limestone. Water cascaded unevenly over two banks of multi-colored lights—reds, yellows, blues, and greens. Seven years ago it had been really groovy—a sentiment that had lasted about three days.

Parked on the drive, next to the fountain, Alex Madrid sat behind the wheel of a 1964 Ford Galaxy 500. The car looked like someone had lovingly rolled it off the set of The Andy Griffith Show—then spent the next twelve years neglecting it. Sun and time had faded it almost white—the big magnetic logos on the front doors declared it a Black Creek College Security vehicle. The same logo adorned the back of the Madrid’s Navy-blue nylon jacket.

Madrid had been on the job for less than a week. He’d seen the ad while thumbing through the local paper—had called the number on a whim. The job had served as a limited escape from boredom and isolation. Last night’s call from Vorcheck signaled the need for an abrupt departure. Tomorrow morning he would inform the head of security—make if official.

A cherry-red GTO pulled past Madrid and rolled to the front of the Student Union. Steve Miller’s Fly Like an Eagle was blaring from the stereo. Madrid watched five students climb from the interior, four girls, and a guy. Three of the girls were wearing short skirts. Two had the legs for it.

Madrid replayed his conversation with Vorcheck—assured himself the man Nicky referred to as The Wizard would not come to Black Creek tonight. He’d been out less than twenty-four hours. He would need time to hook up with Charlie Blades—time to plan—time to fine tune his madness. But Madrid also knew The Wizard could be brilliantly unpredictable—and amazingly brutal.

"Do what they least expect, when they least expect you to do it," the Wizard had told the handsome TV reporter. The Wizard had been wearing an orange prison jump suit that looked three sizes too large on his small frame. His demeanor had been meek and innocuous—his voice little more than a girlish whisper.

The handsome reporter had arranged his face like a serious journalist, had made sure the camera was getting his good side. He leaned forward—focused on the little man. The reporter nodded knowingly, his blue eyes intense, his highlighted-hair perfectly coiffed.

"So you understand what I’m telling you?" the Wizard asked, like a professor might ask a not-so-bright student.

"Yes, I believe I do," the reporter had replied. And then, as if to confirm his understanding, the reporter removed his engraved Cross pen from the inside pocket of his blazer. For dramatic effect, he touched the butt end of his pen to his square chin, lined it up with the clef.

The Wizard sank back into his chair. He smiled his gapped-toothed smile—relaxed and content. He watched the reporter cross his legs and carefully balance the small pad on his knee—made mental note of the perfect crease in his powder-blue trousers.

In what was later described as the blink of an eye, the Wizard snatched the engraved Cross pen. The first blow was downward and left a deep, ragged track from the cheekbone to the jaw. The second blow was a savage thrust. The pen barely missed the reporter’s left eye. The tip plowed through the skin just under the socket and jammed into his nose, breaking it just below the bridge. The Wizard had made sure to get his good side.

"Now you understand," the Wizard had whispered happily. His gap-toothed smile had contorted to a disgusted sneer. His words were drowned beneath the volume of the once-handsome reporter’s screams.

The interview had never aired, but Madrid had been given a copy of the tape. That night, alone in a rented room, Madrid had played it. Played it until he lost count—then had tossed the tape into the burning fireplace.

Now the tape only played in his head.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Andy Frazier emerged from the far side of the garishly lit fountain—the image of Miranda Toliver’s supple body still dancing in his brain. He opened the door and slid into the passenger side of the Galaxy 500. Madrid offered him a peripheral glance. Andy, a day student at Black Creek College, worked part-time with campus security to fulfill the requirement for his scholarship. His thick reddish hair was cut short. His uniform didn’t fit his chunky body; the pants too loose—the shirt too tight.

Hey, Alex, Andy said with forced cheerfulness.

Hey, Madrid answered, scrutinizing the younger man. Something seemed off, but Madrid’s mind was spinning on other matters.

Andy Frazier retrieved a bottle of Pepsi and a freshly opened bag of pork rinds from the floorboard. He extended the bag in Madrid’s direction. The smell was strong in the car. Madrid mumbled, No thanks, and rolled the driver’s side window down halfway. Cool air and the sound of the fountain entered the old car together.

What about your dog? Andy asked.

Madrid glanced over his right shoulder to the big back seat of the old Ford. Spread over most of it was a hundred and forty-five pounds of German shepherd and Bull Mastiff mix. The dog stared back at Madrid without emotion. The two had been together for just over a year. It remained an uneasy alliance.

Yeah, Madrid told Andy Frazier. Toto might like a little snack about now. But I need to give it to him.

The big mutt tilted his head the slightest degree upon hearing his name. After being nearly starved to death, the dog never turned down food. Madrid reached into the bag and selected a couple of large rinds. He knew better than to shove his hand towards the back seat. Instead, he held them up in the air for the dog to see and get a whiff. The massive animal took them gingerly then dropped them on the back seat. He ate them slowly, one at a time.

Can I give him some? Andy asked.

No.

I think he’s beginning to like me, Andy argued.

Madrid kept his eyes fixed forward. He pushed the sleeve of his jacket up over this thick forearm to reveal the scar from the dog’s first bite. I thought that once, too.

Rain began to pepper the windshield of the car.

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Chapter 4

September 24th—11:04 p.m.

Cold rain plastered Dicky Padrick’s blond hair to his oddly shaped skull. His big, pear-shaped body rocked back and forth. Dicky was breathing hard.

The young woman before him was beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen—and she was mostly naked. Mostly naked from the pants up. This was the closest Dicky had ever been to a woman so naked. He could see both of her breasts, both of her nipples. They stared back at him like pink hypnotic eyes. Around her neck, was a delicate gold necklace with a tiny flower. Slowly, Dicky extended his shaking hand. He touched the necklace. He jerked his hand back—unsure. But she didn’t speak—didn’t resist him. Dicky’s circuits were overloaded with excitement, confusion, and fear. His breathing became ragged. Lost in the moment, Dicky forgot about his inhaler. Slowly, carefully he laid his hand on the girl’s naked breast, as if trying to cradle a delicate bird. He closed is eyes, rocked harder. His lungs made a rasping sound in the hard rain. Later, he would be asked how long he had knelt there. He would be unable to remember. What Dicky Padrick would be unable to ever forget, was what happened when he opened his eyes.

A flashing blue light was slicing through the darkness. Dicky heard the distant crackling sound of a woman’s voice on a police radio. A man yelled something at Dicky. Dicky Padrick blinked cold rain from his eyes. The man yelled at Dicky again, louder and more forceful than before. Dicky took one last look at the woman. He slowly removed his hand from her breast, as if not to awake her. Terror raced over him like a thousand spiders. His asthmatic lungs were suddenly on fire. Dicky fell back onto the wet asphalt, flailed as he tried to find his backpack. He struggled awkwardly to rise, lunged and pitched, tried to get his feet under him. He thought he heard the man shout again, but wasn’t sure—didn’t care. The backpack was just a few feet away, at the base of a small ornamental cherry tree. Dicky took one step, then another. Then he heard the explosion. It was deafening—terrifying. Wasn’t like the cartoons that Dicky watched for hours at a time. This was real. Oh, god, he heard himself yelp. The words sucked more precious oxygen from his aching lungs. Dicky picked up the backpack, clutched it to his chest, fumbled for the zipper. Dicky heard the second explosion. At the same instant he felt his legs fold under him. His body hit the pavement like a soft-boiled egg.

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Chapter 5

September 24th—11:05 p.m.

Backfire, Andy Frazier said after the first explosion.

Gunshot, Madrid countered tensely.

Andy eyed the last pork rind. You sure, Alex?

The second blast reverberated across the small college campus. Damn, Madrid muttered savagely. A string of mostly-disjointed thoughts tumbled through his head—macabre and disturbing. His movements smooth and practiced, Madrid pulled a pair of .45 automatics from beneath the front seat.

Call Pete and tell him what’s happening, Madrid barked at the kid. And stay in the car. He glanced into the back seat at the giant mixed breed. The hair had begun to rise on the back of his neck. A low guttural growl rolled from deep in the dog’s throat. Keep Toto in the car.

Andy nodded—it was all moving too fast for the small-town boy.

Madrid was out of the old cruiser—running. His first couple of steps felt stiff and slow. The rain-soaked grass made footing treacherous, but after a few strides he was at a full sprint. For a guy almost forty, Madrid still had good wheels. The shots had come from behind the Student Union. Madrid raced across the front lawn. A walkway ran between a stone-clad retaining wall and the north side of the building. Madrid reached a side door of the Student Union. He pressed his back to the cold, wet brick.

From inside, he could hear the local rock stars. The bass guitarist thumped an irregular heartbeat. Madrid moved quickly along the wall, stayed low, his silhouette slid in and out of the shadows. His movements were nearly silent; the rain covered whatever sound was left.

The alley ended at eight concrete steps. The run off from the parking lot flowed down them, washed over Madrid’s shoes. He eased to the top step, carefully peeked around the corner. The revolving glow of blue light skittered across the back of the building. The cruiser was parked off to his left—on a narrow side road that wound through the back of the campus. A large man with a Stetson hat stood silhouetted in the blue light. He wore the uniform of a deputy sheriff; his eight-inch barreled magnum revolver was drawn and leveled.

Another man was on the wet asphalt—under one of the yellow vapor lights that dotted the parking lot. He jerked violently; both of his hands clutched his left leg. His high-pitched screams struggled through the rain-drenched air. Between the man and deputy, Madrid could see another prone figure. It was a woman—she wasn’t moving.

Madrid backed halfway down the steps and yelled, Campus security!

The deputy spun in the direction of the alley, the big pistol leveled at the shadows. Come out with your hands in sight.

Cliché as hell, but Madrid didn’t take the advice lightly.

Show yourself. Come out slow! the deputy yelled a half a second later. Come out now or I start shooting!

Calm the hell down! Madrid yelled back angrily. My name is Alex Madrid. I’m Campus Security!

Like a giant weather vane in a cross wind, the big deputy swiveled erratically back and forth between Madrid and the man on the ground in the parking lot.

Madrid tucked the .45s into his belt. He walked slowly up the steps to the parking lot. His hands were out to his side, palms forward.

Madrid had seen the deputy a couple of times around town. He was a Sergeant who was running for sheriff in the fall. Check the girl, he ordered Madrid.

Madrid walked toward her, careful not to get between the downed man and the over-excited cop. The young woman stared up at him, her soft pink mouth open slightly, as if surprised by his visit. Her blouse had been pushed up. A broken strand of gold necklace curled between the swells of her smallish breasts. On one end of the strand Madrid could see a tiny gold four-leafed clover. The irony did not escape him.

He placed two fingers on her neck, felt for a pulse—the exercise academic. Madrid had seen too much death to have hope for this girl. The back of her blonde head had been crushed on the surface of the parking lot.

What’s the story, Madrid? the deputy yelled.

She’s dead, he answered. Through the drone of the rain, Madrid’s voice sounded disembodied. Vaguely, he heard the deputy swear.

In the distance, Madrid could hear a vehicle rapidly approaching. A moment later he saw Pete Wilson, the head of campus security, roar up the narrow side street. The white Ford LTD sliced through the standing water—sprayed it high into the air. Wilson locked down the brakes—slid the vehicle sideways to keep from slamming into the deputy’s patrol car. Madrid rose from beside the girl, slipped one of the .45s from his belt, strolled over to the man on the ground.

Keep that son of a bitch covered, Madrid! the deputy yelled in a voice crackling with adrenaline. Check him for weapons. That son of a bitch is dangerous!

The young man on the ground rocked in spasmodic rhythm. His yelling had subsided to a soft, steady whimper. He continued to hold his leg tightly. Madrid could see the blood oozing through his fingers, down his chubby hairless forearms. He didn’t look dangerous. But sometimes, the most dangerous ones don’t.

Madrid jabbed the .45 under the kid’s soft chin and, in the same voice he would use to order a taco, said, Don’t do anything stupid. Madrid patted him down. No weapons. He spotted the backpack a few feet away. Someone had stitched his name on the satchel in bright orange letters.

Is your name Padrick?

Dicky Padrick, the boy on the ground wheezed. Struggled for breath.

Madrid gave the man on the ground a good look. He was a kid, maybe fifteen, or sixteen. He had blond hair that grew in every direction from the apex of his skull. He wore blue denim overalls and a red short-sleeved tee shirt, now soaked with rain. His body was large—pear shaped, his eyes Downs Syndrome. They vividly reflected his apocalyptic terror. Madrid rifled through the backpack—found an inhaler in one of the side pockets—handed it to the kid.

Dicky Padrick stared up at Madrid, his focus equally divided between the inhaler and the .45. He tentatively reached