Caden is Coming

By F.C. Schaefer

Caden is Coming begins with the robbery of a secluded mansion in the sticks of rural Georgia, but unfortunately for the gang of thieves, the man of the house is Lafayette Caden, a 190 year old ruler of a vampire clan. When one of the robbers makes off with an ancient history of the clans, written in human blood, an enraged Caden swears to get his property back and woe unto the mere mortals who have the misfortune to get in his way. These mere mortals come to include an enforcer for the Baltimore Mob, a young runaway girl traveling north in a stolen car,an alcoholic motel manager and his teenage son, the son's best friend and the treacherous owner of an out of the way bar and strip joint, where more goes on than meets the eyes. All of them become the focus of the vampire's wrath during what turns out to be the longest night of their lives; before it is over, perfect strangers must learn to trust and rely on one another if they are to survive until sunrise. Who'll make it? What will be the price of survival? And who is the third party interested in getting their hands on Caden's Book of the Undead? Find out in a journey to epic horror.

• Language: English
• Publisher: F.C. Schaefer
• Release date: Nov 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301362585

F.C. Schaefer

I have always been a fan of such old school monsters as the vampire, the werewolf, the unquiet ghost and the walking dead, and always had the strong ambition to write a novel with one of these creatures in the spotlight. That is why I wrote the BIG CRIMSON series, my vampire trilogy. I consider myself a fan of Anne Rice, having read her VAMPIRE CHRONICLES, but instead of her tales of aristocratic creatures of the night, I wanted my vampires to be a little more down and dirty, less the trappings of nobility and more like organized crime. Most of my blood drinkers lurk in darkened alleys or rundown tenements, and some may be found on the back roads in the wee hours. All of them in search of unwary prey. They come together in clans, ruled over by their “Makers,” who run their fiefdoms with an iron hand. Then there are the outlaw vampires who refuse to bend the knee to any Maker and the allegiance to any clan. They roam from city to city, making their way the best they can having perfected the art of “passing for mortal.” What happens when one of those outlaw vampires is suddenly in need of the help from a mortal is the opening act of BIG CRIMSON.My favorite type of horror story has always been one where the ordinary and the everyday and the supernatural co-exist, where the “normal” façade of the world we take for granted is pulled back to reveal the house of horrors behind. That is the premise I used in BIG CRIMSON and a couple of short stories I’ve written, one of which, PICK YOUR POISON, could best be described as The Stand meets Dracula and the Wolfman. A concept that would make for a great straight to DVD movie back in the day. Another one, YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT’S GOING TO COME THROUGH THE DOOR, turns on the mundane encountering the extraordinary when a vampire has to go shopping for a new suit.Another genre I have written in is alternate history. ALL THE WAY WITH JFK: AN ALTERNATE HISTORY OF 1964 is my story of what might have happened if the tragic events of November 22, 1963 had turned out differently. It is one of the great What Ifs of the 20th Century, and I wanted to write something original—or as close to it as I could come—that would engage fans of speculative history. Using the framing device of an oral history of an America where John F. Kennedy lived to run for re-election, I tell the story through the eyes of characters caught up in events that threaten to spin out of control at any moment, as history sails into uncharted waters.BEATING PLOWSHARES INTO SWORDS is an alternate history of the Vietnam War and comes from my lifelong passion for military history. It is the first thing I actually tried to seriously write. Like my other alternate history books, this one too is told through an oral history by the men and women who fought in and opposed a Vietnam War where the course of history took a different turn when the Communists launch the Tet Offensive three years early, and defeat in Southeast Asia appear eminent. This is when President Lyndon Johnson turns to Richard Nixon to help reverse the war, and where this leads, is the heart of the book. I wanted my first work to be something other than the usual alternate history tropes—no What If the South Won the Civil War or What If Hitler had been victorious. I tried to do write something unique, something fans of this sort of thing might enjoy. Hope I was successful.For the better part of the last decade I have been working on a fantasy trilogy, talk about biting off more than you can chew. My story has a lot of influences, more leaning toward anime and comic books than Tolkien. I outlined and outlined and outlined; then I wrote three books. Then I decided the back story of my fantasy world deserved a book of its own, so I outlined another novel, which needs to be rewritten and revised before I can even think about producing a first draft. I might need to find some beta readers before I proceed any further. After I finished the initial three books in my fantasy series, I took a break and wrote another alternate history novel, this one titled WORLD WAR NIXON. It’s set in the 1970s and is a take what would have happened had some key events of the Nixon Era like the Watergate break in and the opening to Red China had gone differently. It still needs some work, but I hope to get it launched soon.Please check me out on twitter at @FCSNVA to find coupon codes for discounts on my books.

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CADEN IS COMING

F.C. Schaefer

Copyright 2012, Smashwords edition.

Formatted by Katrina Joyner; Cover art by Tatiana Villa

License notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

If you’ve purchased this book, then let me thank you from the bottom of my heart. Hope you enjoy it.

I will have the head of this dog brought to me; my vengeance will cross the mountains, the deserts, the oceans, to the very end of the earth if need be to find him

Haja Khan

I will have what is mine again and it will be the thief’s turn to cry.

Aqualine De Silva, the Dark Sister

Prologue

Monday, August 6th, one week afterward.

The smell was horrendous, pure pungent death; it came out of the air and smacked them in the face long before they reached the clearing in the woods.

Great Goddamn! Deputy Monroe Watkins exclaimed. This is going to be the worst one yet.

Yeah, it’s rank. Brad Fuchs had to agree with his deputy; he was almost into his third decade in law enforcement and near the end of his second term as Sheriff of Greenland County, and in that time he’d seen more than his share of his fellow man at their very worst.....or least that’s what he thought until the night of July 30th.

Both men halted and pulled out handkerchiefs; it was poor protection against the stench, but it was better than nothing.

Might just be a cow, Monroe said; with the hankie to his nose, his voice took on an almost comical tone.

No such luck. Sheriff Fuchs knew his deputy was whistling past the graveyard, both of them had been on the job long enough know what this particular fetid odor meant.

You know we could turn around and hike back to the cars, drive away and forget we ever started out here in the first place. Not like we don’t have a full plate already.

The Sheriff glanced upward between the Poplar and Pin Oak branches overhead and saw the vultures circling lazily in the warm afternoon sky. Too late for that, somebody else would notice your friends up there, same as you did and come looking. Then we’d be right back out here.

Guess so. Deputy Watkins sounded disappointed, which irritated the Sheriff; it was Monroe who’d noticed the cluster of vultures doing loopdy-loops low in the sky in the first place. He’d observed them after pulling over a truck whose driver was suspected of souvenir hunting around Remington Station after the recent events. It was really nothing more than looting and the Greenland County Sheriff’s Department had dealt with more than one case of it in the preceding days; More of their fellow man at his unqualified worst.

Ahead of them, on the other side of a thicket of small pines, came the tell tale sound of wings flapping, followed by a gurgling cry of gaw. No use putting it off, the Sheriff said. Let’s see what’s behind door number three.

Hunh? His deputy gave him a quizzical look and the Sheriff remembered Monroe was 17 years his junior, too young to recall the glory days of daytime game shows.

Let’s just do this. The Sheriff pushed his way ahead through the spindly pine branches and entered the clearing, surprising its occupants in the process. Three shiny black birds of prey, their heads a garish red, took to the sky at his approach. The object of their attention was blocked from view by the trunk of a downed tree.

What the Sheriff discovered on the other side of the fallen tree was just what he expected it to be. And worse. The clothes it wore were those of a man; that was the only thing about it that was definite. Actually it resembled nothing human so much as an enormous piece of rotting fruit. A piece of fruit whose skin had turned dark gray with mottles of deep purple; the summer heat and humidity had caused it to bloat up and rupture, allowing caramel colored bodily fluids, alive with bacteria, to ooze out through a tear in the gut. This same rupture was where the vultures had been feasting, an all-you-can-eat buffet of carrion. They were not the only ones to make a meal off the decayed flesh, knots of maggots squirmed around the eyes, the mouth, the neck and any other spot where the skin was open, making it easy for them to get at the softness beneath. Above it all, the air was thick with huge green flies.

Oh Lord Jesus, Deputy Monroe had come up to stand beside the Sheriff,

Yeah, Sheriff Fuchs replied, could really use his help right about now.

Recognize him? The Deputy sounded like he was ready to spew.

Tell me how the hell I’m supposed to recognize that mess? The Sheriff spun around and retreated to edge of the clearing; the back of his khaki shirt was wringing wet and not just because it was the hottest time of the day.

Sorry, didn’t mean anything. The Deputy had followed him. How many will this one make it? It wasn’t the Sheriff’s style to snap at his subordinates, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped.

Not sure. The Sheriff shook his head. More than a dozen and a half, I know that. In truth he knew exactly how many; twenty-five body bags had been sent to the State Police Forensic Lab in Richmond, add the one they’d just found to it and the total would be twenty-six...as of Monday afternoon. And that did not take into account the missing. Somehow the ugly facts of the matter were dulled just a little as long as they weren’t spoken out loud.

Maybe he’s the one who did Charlie? Monroe gestured toward the fallen tree.

If there was one thing Sheriff Brad Fuchs did not want to talk about right at that moment, much less think about, it was Charlie McCoy. It brought on too many dark thoughts. Call this in, he ordered Monroe. Go back to the cars and wait for the ME to arrive; somebody has to lead them back here. I’ll wait with the body.

You’ll be okay out here? There was concern in the deputy’s voice.

I’ll be fine, just get going.

Monroe Watkins started to say something, and then thought the better of it; he nodded and walked off, quickly disappearing among the trees, obviously glad to get away from the corpse and those who considered it dinner. Once his deputy was out of sight, Sheriff Fuchs wandered upwind of the clearing, where the air was at least breathable.

Slowly, moving like an old man, the Sheriff lowered himself to the ground at the foot of a Sycamore and listened as the clatter of grasshoppers in the undergrowth competed with the drone of the flies swirling in a cloud over the body. From close by came the song of a whippoorwill. He leaned back, resting himself against the tree, and though he felt a tiredness that lay all the way to the bone, he knew sleep would not be coming anytime soon.

They’re going to take it all away from me, he thought. Nearly 30 years on the job, and it all just turns to shit. The bitch of it is I’m utterly powerless to do a damn thing about it. He closed his burning, tired eyes. One more term, that’s all I needed. Then walk away with a full pension, deep sea fishing in Florida, golf in Myrtle Beach, all the perks of the golden years of retirement. Not going to happen now. Not with this mess on his watch: over two dozen citizens dead in one night, way too many of them still John Does; they didn’t even have a figure yet on the missing; a half dozen fires called in, not to mention a tanker exploding in the middle of Route 1 for no apparent reason. The blaze burned so hot it melted the asphalt. Something bad had rolled through lower end of Greenland County, Virginia the previous Monday night; it was as if a category 5 tornado had touched down or a quake had opened the up the earth beneath them, except the sky was muggy and still all night and the ground remained as solid as ever.

We don’t have a clue where to begin. There were the abandoned vehicles, or more specifically, the abandoned antiques: a 1978 T-Bird, sitting right out in the middle of Ralph Jenkins’s pasture, a 1973 Dodge Charger beside it along with a more recent 2001 Toyota Camry. All discovered on Tuesday morning. It was as if the owners had parked them, gotten out, gone to a picnic and never come back. Even stranger was a big Winnebago that might have made its first trip across country sometime during the Reagan years, parked behind a clump of trees over behind George Halton’s corn field. Whoever had been behind the wheel had gone the extra mile to make sure their autos would not be disturbed; none of them could be seen from nearby Route 1. This suggested that the missing owners had planned to return at some point. A trace revealed that the T-Bird had been reported stolen from a murdered antique dealer in Charleston, South Carolina in 1977. More disturbing, the others were registered to dead people, all of whom had lived in south Georgia and passed away there in the 1980’s and early 90’s. Beyond that, they hit a brick wall.

It was all nothing but questions and no answers. That thread was going to unravel it all. There’d been calls from the Governor, the Superintendent of the State Police had been in his office twice, and two FBI agents would be there tomorrow. There would be multiple investigations; a grand jury inquest; and most likely an independent commission would be appointed. It would be inevitable with this high a body count and no suspect in custody. Sooner or later there’d be inquires about the Sundown Club and what had gone on there, especially up on the second floor. Deals had been made, hands shaken; it was all the kind of thing that couldn’t be defended in the light of day.

And there would be plenty of questions when they took a look at Charlie McCoy’s log and saw where he’d made regular stops during his shift. Gossip and suspicion would be repeated and somebody would wonder why Sheriff Bradford Fuchs bought a brand new Mustang Convertible while he was bitching to anybody who’d listen how after ten years of paying child support, he had zip in the bank.

They’ll take it all away from me. He couldn’t get the thought off his mind, being a lawman was all he’d ever wanted to do, all he was ever good at. Lloyd Keogh is warden up at

Coffeewood, he could get me on there. But that thought cut like a knife, he couldn’t bear the image of himself in a prison guard’s uniform. They’ll say that’s all I’m good for. Almost without thinking about it, his hand slid to his holster.

It had all gone bad and whatever it was that rolled through the south end of Greenland County, on the night of July 30th was way more than Brad Fuchs had signed on for back in the day.

A train whistle blew off in the distance and he heard the feint klackity-klack as another freight rolled past Remington Station. The Sheriff opened his eyes in time to see one of the vultures descend; it perched on the fallen tree for a moment before jumping to the bloated corpse’s chest and began to pick at the maggot patch on its neck. A wound to your throat, bet that’s what killed you, you son of a bitch.

Brad Fuchs did not care.

This knowledge--that after all his years on the job, tracking down a murderer no longer mattered; no longer filled him with urgency and anger--pierced him like a dagger to the heart. And in that moment of despair, he realized he was no longer a lawman, his career-his life-was all in the past tense now.

Finished. Finished. End of the Road.

He did not remember pulling his S & W .38 service revolver out, but it was in his right hand now. Everything fell into place, he’d been divorced for ten years and his ex-wife was remarried; his daughter was grown and on her own. Nobody depended on him.

He cocked the hammer.

Might as well. Those were the last spoken words of Sheriff Bradford Emory Fuchs before he put the .38’s barrel in his open mouth.

He gently squeezed the trigger.

The last thing his eyes be held before a bullet tore through his brain and exited the back of his skull was of a red headed vulture picking at the maggot infested tear in the corpse’s neck and coming away a nice sized chunk of slate gray skin.

The days before

CHAPTER 1

HAL DUCKETT.

Didn’t remember how much I hated the country ‘til I came back out here. Every time I roll the window down it smells like cow shit.

Don’t sweat it, Hal. You’re not going to be out here long.

Damn straight about that. I don’t like this guy. Don’t trust him either.

You make it sound like he wants your vote. I know Burnett and can vouch for him.

Well I don’t know Burnett, but I do know that I don’t trust somebody who would take a job right in a man’s home, earn his trust and take his money and then turn around and stab him in the back.

"Even when that knife in the back puts money in your pocket?’

I love stealing, but I hate a rat.

That don’t make no damn sense.

Makes perfect damn sense to me; if your buddy, Burnett, that you vouch for so damn well, can steal from the man who gives him the cushy job of looking after his big house in the country, then what does that make him?

The man who’s going to let us walk right in the front door of that big house when we get there, that’s what it makes him.

It makes him somebody you can’t trust.

You’re thinking too much, it’s a piece of cake. Wait and see.

Hal Duckett really did hate the country, but he loved money a hell of a lot more; even so, when Larry Jones turned the Oldsmobile off the black top and onto the longest stretch of dirt road he’d ever seen, his gut instinct was to order Larry to turn the car the hell around and head back to Atlanta. The urban jungle was in his blood and there was something about the flat open countryside of south Georgia that made the hair on his neck stand up. Hal took pride in his well developed street smarts, honed by two stints in the Georgia State Penal system and many years of earning his living from B&E jobs; so when an internal voice told him to watch his back, he listened.

Turn this thing around and let’s get back to the highway.

Too late now, we’re almost there. Larry sounded adamant.

I don’t care.

Well I do, and besides, you’ve already invested the better part of a day gettin’ here, you might as well get something for the effort.

Hal very reluctantly bowed to Larry’s logic, and he had to admit his partner had a point, especially when Hal remembered he was nearly flat broke with bills to pay. He hadn’t pulled a job in two months, not since he’d broken in through the back door of a gun shop over near Phoenix City in Alabama; that piece of work had netted Hal $526.47 in cash, a dozen hand guns, three Mossberg shotguns and Winchester 30.06, all of which went for $1,500.00 on the street; pure profit. And every penny of it was gone now.

But it was still better to be hungry and free than eating three squares a day behind bars and as Hal continued to watch the flat land go by, that thought dug itself into the back of his brain. The road had become nothing more than a dirt lane with grass in the middle, while verdant green fields, thick with either peanuts or soybeans, spread out for what seemed like miles on both sides. Far off to his right, Hal could see the edge of a pine forest, while far ahead in the distance, a clump of trees appeared. Behind them, a thick cloud of dust followed in the wake of Larry’s Oldsmobile. All this wide open space only added to Hal’s broody sense of unease and gave him the vague notion that he was about to be stepped on by some great invisible leviathan.

If this don’t smell right to me, I’m out of there, tell you that right now.

Larry shook his head and kept his eyes on the road, which now resembled nothing so much as two parallel ruts. Have I ever steered you wrong? he asked. One time; tell me? That doctor’s house in Decatur, best score you ever got; and who was it that set the whole thing up?

Hal gritted his teeth, because Larry Jones was right and it was pissing him off. What I am getting at is this: Third parties complicate things, he said, changing the subject. And I don’t work well when I got to look over my shoulder all the time.

I got your back, remember that and relax. At that moment the Olds ran up on a cattle gate, hitting the undercarriage on it as they passed over. They were almost to the clump of trees when Hal suddenly caught a glint of sunlight reflecting off a bright surface. In the next instant, he realized the trees were grouped about in a yard; the yard itself was spread out around a great house, a mansion really, with a barn and out buildings beyond it.

As Larry steered the car from the drive to a parking area out front, Hal turned his head to and fro, trying to get the lay of the land. Up close, the house truly was a mansion; red brick and built in the colonial style with double chimneys on both ends. A wide, high porch greeted them from the end of a long cobblestone walk. The reason why a visitor did not notice the structure until they were almost upon it, Hal realized, was that the mansion was very effectively camouflaged by the copse of great Oaks surrounding it, and from a distance, the huge trees seemed quite small against the open country around it and the vast horizon behind them.

Here we are and here we go, said Larry as he turned the ignition off. All we got to do is stay cool, do the job, and you can count the money all the way back to Atlanta.

Hal gave him a grunt in reply, then reached underneath his seat and retrieved a small cloth bag with a draw string, from which he withdrew a two pair of cotton gloves. He tossed one pair to Larry before slipping the other pair on his own hands; there would be no finger prints at the scene to do the cop’s job for them. Together they got out of the car and Hal felt the heat of summer’s afternoon coil itself around him tight and squeeze; after half a day riding in the comfort of the AC, he wanted as little as possible to do with the great outdoors.

The first thing he noticed after the oppressive warmth was the unreal quiet; Hal was used to the clang and clatter of urban Atlanta, but standing there beside Larry’s Olds, he thought it sounded dead even for the boonies. A single raspy call from a blackbird, high up in one of the Oaks, rang out; not even the grasshopper’s shrill whine could be heard from the weeds, it was as if the heat of the afternoon had been too much even for them.

Damnit Larry, you were supposed to be here before noon, that was two hours ago.

These words broke the funeral silence and let Hal know they were not alone; looking down at them from top of the porch steps was a ferret of a man; evidently he had come outside without making a noise, for Hal was sure the porch had been empty when they’d driven up.

Hal, this is Burnett Lowe, Larry said, gesturing with his hand toward the little man on the porch. And Burnett, this is Mr. Hal Duckett, who never met a lock that could stop him. Larry reversed the hand gesture on the second introduction.

Lowe acted as if he hadn’t heard what Larry said. When someone gives me a time, that’s when I expect them.

Don’t go and get your panties in a wad, Burnett, Larry Jones answered Some of us had a late night. Don’t forget Hal had to come out from Atlanta and you know what a bitch the traffic can be. Not to mention how far off the beaten path this place is.

We agreed you’d get here before noon.

Well done is done and we’re here now.

We made an agreement and I took you at your word. The little man was not giving an inch.

Hal felt like telling Lowe to go to hell and take his attitude with him. I don’t need this shit, he said. You don’t want my services, then good bye and screw you. He punched Larry on the shoulder and motioned towards the Olds, Let’s get the hell going.

Hal, we come a long way on a hot day, Larry said. And we don’t want to just turn around and pass on a good payday because somebody took a tone. Isn’t that true, Burnett?

Yeah, I guess, Lowe answered; Hal heard the reluctance in his voice.

So tell Mr. Duckett here that you are sorry you took such a pissy tone after he had to come all this way.

It amused Hal to watch as Larry put the little man in his place, he didn’t like vermin like Lowe on principle and somehow you always got scratched when you dealt with his type.

I’m sorry, Mr. Duckett, Lowe said after sucking in and letting out a deep breath, that I took such a pissy tone with you after you made a special trip way out here to the middle of nowhere.

Hal paused a moment, making sure Lowe was sincere, no snickering or sneering behind the words. I’ll go get my tools, he said at last and walked back to the Olds.

You better watch that tongue, he heard Larry tell Lowe when he reached the car. He’s a professional and you’re making me look bad. You left it up to me to find whatever talent this job might need. I did all the heavy lifting so far.

Don’t know how much more sorry I can be, Larry. Lowe sounded like a man who’d swallowed his pride on a dry throat.

Hal retrieved the cloth bag from under the front seat; on the way back he decided the little bastard had been sufficiently put in his place, it might be more productive to take a different tact. This is a damn big place out here, he said as he walked up the steps; Larry had joined Lowe on the porch. "How many rooms it got?

Sixteen, Lowe sounded like he’d made up his mind to be agreeable.

Old too, is it not? Hal thought he was sounding downright chatty now.

Yeah, George Washington probably slept here, Lowe replied as Hal reached the top step. I think it was built in 1775 or something close to that.

Let’s get started, Larry said motioning toward the front entrance. You said your boss wouldn’t be back until after dark, that right Burnett?

Yeah, not until after dark, Lowe answered.

Then we got plenty of time, Hal said. You little weasel, he thought. What line of business your boss man in? Got to make the bucks to hold on to a place like this, taxes alone would eat you up.

Lowe brushed his mouth before he replied and for the first time Hal noticed the pinkie finger on his left hand was missing up the second knuckle. He’s what you’d call ‘old money,’ I guess. The farm’s been in the family a long, long time.

And some of that ‘old money’ is inside waiting for us, Larry was making an effort to sound impatient. So why are we standing around?

Once through the front door, Hal thought he’d stepped into a museum, or more precisely, one of the homes of the Founding Fathers, so perfectly preserved that he half expected to see Jefferson or Adams descend the staircase and offer greetings. Both Larry and he got no further than the front room, where a Grandfather’s clock, standing against the wall, snagged their attention.

I know an antique dealer in Macon, Hal observed, pay at least a thousand for something like this.

No shit, Larry responded.

What you came for is back here. Lowe pointed in the direction of a hall that led from the front room to the back of the house. We need to make time.

They paid him no mind; other things had grabbed Hal and Larry’s attention; the two men left the front room and proceeded to stroll into a large parlor directly to their left. Look at all this, Larry said, admiring the furnishings, not the least of which consisted of a colonial writing desk and a small piano with a set of silver candle holders perched on top. An oak card table fashioned in an oval style sat in the middle of the room. Against the far wall was a locked china cabinet, filled with porcelain; next to it was large straight backed chair that seemed to reach more than half way to the high ceiling. On a table in the corner was a set of crystal wine glasses.

Somebody got some money, Larry observed.

Somebody is going to make some money, Hal replied with a laugh. A thought popped into his mind almost without thinking, in another instant, the thought become a plan. If things went well, and there was no damn good reason why they shouldn’t, Hal Duckett was going to be flush with cash for quite awhile. As he pondered this, his eyes wondered to the space above the fireplace and the windfall in his mind suddenly grew larger. He bumped his partner’s shoulder and pointed upward.

If that’s authentic, it’s worth a small fortune to the right collector, Hal was pointing to a long sword mounted over the fireplace mantle. It appeared to be at least four feet in length, with a gold plated hilt and scabbard. There was an efficient wickedness about it that bespoke of a time when men charged across open farm land and killed each other face to face.

Looks like something Robert E. Lee could have used, Larry commented.

Jeb Stuart more likely, that’s a weapon for a man on horseback. Hal felt beads of sweat appear on his forehead and for the first time noticed the absence of a familiar cool breeze; there was no air conditioning in the house. The air in the parlor hung heavy and stifling with a dry, stale funk clinging to the walls.

If you say so Ken Burns, Larry laughed.

Got a complete set of that series when I cleaned out a pawnshop about 10 years ago; watched every damn minute of it twice. Hal leaned over so as not to be overheard. This place really is out of another time, maybe you’re thinking what I’m thinking.

I just might be, Larry replied in kind, lot of money just lying around in here.

What you came for are back here, guys, Lowe repeated from the front room, sounding very impatient.

Larry gave Hal a knowing wink before they turned and followed Lowe; he led them out of the front room and down the hall, stopping in front of an iron door, with a recessed lock and latch, making it flush with the wall.

Can you open it? Lowe asked.

That’s what I came here for, Hal answered as he bent down to inspect the lock. Looks like a dead bolt made by Schlage, which is no problem. Alarm?

No.

Find that kind of funny, Hal said as his eyes met Lowe’s. You got a big house out here in the middle of nowhere, full of valuable antiques, expensive furniture, and no security system? I’m living proof you can’t depend on a lock or a safe, but that’s all the guy that owns this place seems to have. Like I say, find that kind of funny, Mr. Burnett Lowe.

I’m the security system, Lowe said without blinking.

And now he’s the rooster in the hen house, Larry said, slapping Hal on the back. I’ve known Burnett since we went to high school. We got permanently expelled on the same day.

Well I don’t know jack shit about him, Hal said. I’ve been doing B & E jobs for almost twenty years and in all that time I done less than a year behind bars. And that’s because I don’t take anybody’s word for anything and I know when something don’t look right. I got no problem walking away; there will always be another payday for somebody with my skills. Hal leaned in so that his face was close to Lowe’s. And there is something here that’s not right, a little voice in my head told me that the instant I got out of the car; and that little voice is still telling me the same thing right now. I’d like to know why a man rich enough to own a spread like this is going to trust it all to a little shit like you? Tell me that, Mr. Burnett Lowe, before I pick that lock.

Go ahead, Burnett. Convince the man, Larry said. Tell him what he needs to hear.

My employer is a fool, Lowe answered A blind trusting fool who always keeps $12,000 on hand. He looked Hal right in the eyes, not blinking once. He does a lot of business in cash. The only other person who knows how much he keeps and where he keeps it is me. If there is a robbery, I am the only suspect, the only one whose neck is on the line. You two guys got no connection to this place; you leave here with cash in your pockets and the road in front of you. I’m the only one looking at a jail cell. That ought to convince you, Mr. Duckett

Hal returned Lowe’s glare while he turned over in his head what the little runt was saying. Something is not right here, the little voice kept repeating. Damn straight something wasn’t right; it was in the air, the close, stuffy, no AC air. But there was also another voice in Hal’s head, one he never talked about out loud; the one that told him he was flat broke, a Goddamn low life failure; a Goddamn low life failure who was standing in the middle of a house containing a small fortune, only an arm’s reach away. Both voices shouted for attention for a very long second before one went silent and everything fell into place.

What’d you say, Hal? he heard Larry ask. We in business here?

Hal gave Lowe one more long look up and down, before flashing him his best evil grin.

I see what’s going on now, you two are queers, he said with a laugh.

What the hell.... Lowe stammered, his face suddenly beet red.

All those antiques were a sure giveaway. Found yourself a Sugar Daddy here, Hal continued, thoroughly enjoying Lowe’s discomfort. You watch his house full of pretty antiques, keep them all nice and neat and clean and in return he gives you a bed to sleep in, only it’s a double bed.

It’s not like that at all! Lowe shot back, and for a moment, he thought the little man was going to take a swing at him.

I bet he’s some big old queen just like the ones I saw in the yard when I did that stretch up in Baldwin. And they’d always hook up with some a scrawny little runt like you. Goddamn, what a freak show that was. You didn’t tell me he was a fudge packer, Larry. Hal was quite amused with himself now.

C’mon Hal, Larry said with a chuckle. I never known Old’ Burnett to swing that way, then again since he took this job we sure don’t see him around much, and when we do, he sure clams up, never mentions this guy he works for; maybe he is hiding something.

Lowe shook his head, as if trying to will his anger away. Say what you want, think what you want, he said. Just please open that door like you came here to do.

Sure sweetheart, Hal said, very pleased with himself, but first you two get the hell out of here.

What? Lowe clearly did not understand.

That’s the way he rolls, Larry informed Lowe. Never does a job with witnesses around.

You can’t testify to what you don’t witness, which means you can’t get on the stand and point your finger at me. Hal explained. So run along and let me do what I came here for.

We can wait back in the kitchen, Lowe said, and with Larry in tow, the two of them quickly walked the hall and disappeared into far room.

And no peeking, Hal called after them. You hear me, sweetheart?

What an asshole, he heard Lowe say from the kitchen, the sound carrying easily; Hal was sure the little queer knew he was within earshot.

Larry’s voice carried as well. Hal’s very good at what he does, he can afford to be an asshole, he said. Remember, you’re the one who came to me, Burnett; told me about this place with the room full of cash and how we could make a good haul if only we could get past a certain locked door.

He’s still an asshole, that’s all I got to say.

By then Hal had gone to work. Retrieving the right pick (which at first glance could be mistaken for a dentist’s tool) and tension wrench from the cloth bag containing the tools of his trade, Hal gently went about the process of manipulating the lock so that it would open without the benefit of a key. Methodically working the pick to find the right amount of force to move each pin, Hal did what he did best. All in the touch, all in the touch, he thought each time he felt a pin lift and the cylinder move. Once the fourth pin was done, he turned the cylinder all the way and heard the deadbolt retract. Fuckin’ piece of cake.

And that was the thing; it was altogether a little too much a fuckin’ piece of cake. Among Hal Duckett’s well honed street smarts was the ability to look a gift horse in the mouth and count every tooth. Then he remembered exactly how flat broke he was and just how long it had been since he had made a visit to his favorite brothel down in Panama City. Hey Lowe, he called out, this lock opened up easier than your mother’s twat, so get your queer ass back in here.

The door opened on a small windowless room, no bigger, Hal thought, than a prison cell, empty except for a wooden desk against the back wall. Sitting atop the desk was a metal lock box.

If I have to pick that thing too, Hal remarked, then I want a bigger cut.

No way, Larry said.

Hal dug in. Yes way; Extra for pay for extra work.

Lowe pushed between the two of them and pulled open a desk drawer, from inside of which he produced a small key. No problem, no extra cut, he made a point of saying to Hal. This is what you came here for, he said as he inserted the key in the lock box and flipped the top open, revealing the multiple faces of Benjamin Franklin in neat packs bound by rubber bands.

This should be easy enough, Larry said as scooped up the bills and laid them out on the desk top. Just give me a minute to count it out and divide it up.

Fine, Lowe said, but his eyes were still on the inside of the box where a yellowed front page of the Atlanta Constitution was spread out to cover the bottom, but Lowe pulled it up to reveal a thick black bound book underneath.

What you got there? Hal said as Lowe picked the volume up, taking his eyes off Larry as he counted out each bundle into three neat stacks.

It’s just an old book, Lowe sounded disinterested.

Maybe a little too disinterested to Hal’s ear. Lemme see that, he said as he reached over and yanked the book from Lowe’s hand before the little man could protest. Anything kept under lock and key gotta be worth something to somebody. This one of those rare editions?

Give it back, Lowe demanded. It don’t mean anything to you.

Hall didn’t buy any of it. What’s the story, Burnett?

There’s no story, Lowe said.

No story, except that you want it real bad, Hal said.

Forget that, both of you, Larry said, finished with his counting and dividing. It’s all there, $12,000, which breaks down to four grand apiece, all nice and neat.

Hal looked down at the three stacks of Benjamins, one of which was his, and had no illusions as to how far it would last him. Yeah, that’s all nice and neat as far as it goes, he said, but we can do a lot better than that, can’t we Larry.

Larry looked first from Lowe and then back to Hal. Yes we can, he replied, giving Hal a look that let him know they were on the same page, shame to come out here and settle for a mere four grand when two, maybe three times that much is lying around just for the taking.

Lowe’s face was the perfect picture of panic at these words. Guys, this isn’t what we agreed on; it was only supposed to be a quick in and out, pick the lock and take the cash. That’s all.

Well you can take your share and go, Larry said, pointing to one of the stacks on the desk top. That was what you planned to do anyway, Burnett; it’s no skin off your balls if Hal and me stick around and line our pockets a little more.

Fine by me, Lowe replied and began stuffing bills into his pockets. I just want to put a lot of distance between me and this place as fast as I can.

Hal thought the sight of the little man, frantically filling the pockets of his Wrangler jeans with hundred dollar bills, quite comical. There were four quite noticeable bulges when he was finished. Why don’t you head down to Miami; I’m sure with that kind of loot you could buy your very own faggot, be the Sugar Daddy for a change.

Lowe ignored what Hal said; instead he stretched his hand out. The only thing else I want is that book you’re holding.

No way, Hal replied. You just said the money was fine by you, so that’s all you get. He was now convinced more than ever that the black bound volume was worth something, why else would Lowe insist on it. You walk away now and take your share, nothing more. If you don’t want to loot, you don’t get any extra loot.

C’mon, the book don’t mean nothing to you, Lowe pleaded.

Be quiet, both of you, Larry said as he punched in a number on the cell phone he always carried on his belt. A minute later he was in conversation with someone named Eldon, whom he instructed to not say a word, but to listen and follow his instructions to get a truck with a lift gate, not to mention a bunch of old quilts to use as furniture pads. After giving Eldon directions out to the house and asking him to recite his instruction back to him to make sure he understood what to do, Larry flipped the phone shut and put it back on his belt.

Talking to my cousin Eldon, Larry explained. He’s the day manager at the Shell station back in town, soon as the evening man gets there, he’ll be right out here with one of his Ryder rentals and we’ll load up. Take whatever we can get something for

And this cousin can be trusted? Hal asked. Because you just put your future and more importantly, mine, in his hands, since he will be able testify that we were on the premises exactly when it was broken into and robbed. Then there’s the matter of this motherfucker’s cut; it’ll come out of your share. That is non-negotiable

Larry shook his head. Hear what you’re saying, but Eldon is good people, he knows the score. He’s helped me out in a pinch before. And don’t worry about settling up, he’ll be glad to take whatever crumbs I toss his way. Got child support problems.

Hal seriously doubted cousin Eldon would prove to be good people when his ass got hauled into an interrogation room, but it was a risk he would have to live with for now; after all, it had been his idea to help themselves to the mansion’s furnishings. Still, bringing in a fourth person had raised the risk factor exponentially. We’ll clean out that china cabinet first, he said. Some of it looked like it could be Spode.

Spode? Larry looked quizzical.

Spode china, Hal answered. It has birds on it and it can be worth an ass load, providing its old enough. Do my kind of work for very long and you get to have an eye for this stuff. That card table could be worth well in the five figures.

No shit. Larry sounded impressed.

Hal laughed. Yeah, I could get a job on that Antiques Roadshow.

On what? Larry obviously was not a regular viewer of PBS.

Listen to me! Burnett Lowe interjected; Hal had almost forgotten he was still there. We’re already running late, all of us were supposed to be gone by now; that was the plan.

Well plans change, Burnett, Larry responded. Sometimes we got to be flexible.

Nothing keeping you here, Hal added. You got your money, hit the road. The little bastard was seriously starting to get on his nerves now.

Adding to Hal’s irritation, Lowe was developing a serious case of the flop sweats. You don’t have the time to wait for your gas pumping cousin, he said, much less help yourself and load up a truck.

And why is that, Burnett. Hal got right in Lowe’s face. And let me warn you, nothing shits on trust like a changing story.

Lowe swallowed before he answered. My employer might be back before you get through, don’t think you’d want that would you.

You said he wouldn’t be back until way after dark, Larry said. That’s not for at least five hours.

Lowe’s eyes had been darting back and forth like a pair of stray marbles; a sure sign that the speaker was lying, a fact Hal Duckett knew from experience. One way or another, I’m getting the truth out of this little weasel. I think Larry just caught you contradicting yourself. Hal took a step closer and backed Lowe against the desk. So what is it, Burnett; when is your big, gay lover coming home? An hour? Two? Three? Or never? Something has not added up since Larry and me pulled up out front. Who the hell lives in a place like this, in times like this, and don’t have so much as a door alarm? And where the hell is the AC? It’s almost like an oven in here; people don’t live like this in the 21rst Century, now do they?

I think you’d be surprised, Lowe shot back.

What surprises me, Hal continued, is how dumb you take me to be. Any amateur could have gotten through that lock with a paper clip and a lot to time, something you seem to have plenty of way out here.

Lowe suddenly stopped his twitching and returned Hal’s stare. "Believe you me, Mr. Duckett, my employer is very real and if you ever met him, you’d understand perfectly why things are the way they are; and I shit you not when I tell you he’ll be standing right here in this room long before tomorrow gets here. And you really, really do not want to be anywhere near this place when he gets here. But if you want to take your chances, then like I said fine by me, all I want is to be a few hundred miles from here by then with the one thing I’ve asked you for, the book you’re holding. I don’t think that’s much."

He always keeps coming back to the book. He had been holding it under his arm, momentarily forgotten, but now Hal took it in his hands and for the second time, gave it a good look. Nothing about its appearance was exceptional. It was bound in black leather without a title or inscription of any kind on either the cover or the back; even the spine was blank. The binding was solid and the spine unbroken, even though something about it suggested another age, an earlier time when the only book most families possessed was a King James version of the Bible, with its special section reserved for recording births, marriages and eventual deaths.

The lack of any clues on the cover only deepened Hal’s curiosity and hardened his conviction that it was far more valuable than its appearance let on. This is what it was really all about, wasn’t it Burnett? Hal held the book up high enough where Lowe could not reach it. This is what you really wanted out of all this, not the money. He waved it in the air. Get me to pick the lock and we split the cash, while you walk off with the real treasure. A real hidden agenda, I think. Well, you’re busted, so time to ‘fess up and tell the truth.

For a moment, Lowe’s control slipped, Hal saw absolute terror flare up in his eyes and he was sure the little prick was going to collapse onto the floor at his feet, dissolving into racking sobs on the hardwood. But Lowe managed to snatch his nerve back at the last moment before it slid beyond his grasp. Don’t you have enough already? he asked in a surprisingly calm voice. Then added, And you’d better think twice before demanding the truth, because sometimes the truth bites.

Hal was through with Burnett Lowe talking his way around every question he was asked; there was one place he was sure to get the skinny. Truth bites, hunh, he said, well let me see if there’re any teeth in here; he said and flipped the front cover open.

Lowe’s reaction was immediate. DON’T DO THAT! he screamed and lunged forward in an attempt to swipe the book from Hal’s hands. Hal was way ahead of him and stepped back so that Lowe’s hands snatched at empty air; in the next instant he took a step forward and slammed his left fist into the little prick’s gut. It was like putting the beat down on a feather pillow; Lowe doubled over and fell back against the desk behind him, gasping for air.

Hey guys, cool it, Hal heard Larry say. We got a good thing going and we don’t want to fuck it up.

Hal ignored his partner, after Lowe’s reaction; there was no force on earth that could keep him from finding out what was between those two black leather covers. But what he found on the front page was not something on the order of John Wilkes Booth’s true confession about who was really behind the Lincoln assassination. To his disappointment, what he found was written in a foreign language he recognized as French; the first couple of pages were laid out in a neat, almost elegant hand, blocks of indecipherable text, piled one upon another. Then on the third page, a list of names, also in French, began and continued on page after page as Hal leafed ahead.

"What’s it say?’ Larry asked.

It’s all been written by some French fuck, couldn’t read a word of it if I wanted to.

"Don’t read any of it out loud, Lowe managed to gasp out. For God’s sake listen to me on this."

Hal was about to slam the book shut and give up, he even considered tossing the damn thing back to Lowe in frustration when he thumbed over to the middle of the volume and to his relief, discovered the handwriting had turned to English. It followed the same form as before, a few paragraphs of text, then row after row of names, written three across, covering the surface of each page. Hal skimmed a few sentences, hoping to catch the gist of it.

He silently read down half a page before stopping and calling over to Larry, Listen to this, it’ll blow your mind.

Noooo! Lowe wailed. I’m beggin’ you.

Hal paid him no mind and proceeded to read aloud from the book. A Maker must never tolerate a brazen and deliberate insult or lack of due respect, for that reason I decided to make an example of Mayland Bantree and his tribe of harlots. In the hour before sunrise, I went alone to the ruin of his ancestor’s once great plantation and found him feeding and fornicating with members of what he called his ‘Arab Harem.’ Too besotted to resist me, I drug the wretch from his four-poster bed and nailed him upside down to his barn wall with my bare hands. Thereupon I slit open his throat, so that the blood of the murdered Angel, my wasted gift to him, would drain out upon the red Georgia dirt. There I left him, crucified in the manner of St. Peter, for the sun to finish my work My final act was to seal up the ‘harem’ inside the Bantree house and set the place afire, the despicable whores beseeched me for mercy, but such low living mortal vermin were beneath such consideration. Their screams as the fire took them did no more to prick my conscious than the mewling of a cellar rat caught under my boot. It is hard, but it is a right and necessary thing done to restore order to my Clan.

Whoa, Larry said when Hal finished. That sounds hard-core; those old Ku-Klux guys didn’t mess around.

I don’t think he was talking about the fellows in the white sheets, clan is spelled with a ‘c’ and the people you’re talking about liked to have neck-tie parties; doing as the Romans did was really not their style. A shiver ran through Hal and it took a minute for him to comprehend how freaked out reading the passage had made him feel. He had seen some hard shit in his line of work, but the calmness with which the writer had put to paper the atrocities he committed was something beyond his experience. The ink is faded to brown, but I bet it was bright red on the day this page was written. Bright scarlet ink. For a moment Hal Duckett was seized with the urge to let the book in his hands drop to the floor and flee this great brick house in the country, to walk all the way back to Atlanta if necessary, to put one foot in front of the other and not look back.

Anything more like that in there? Larry’s question broke Hal’s train of thought and he was back to being the best B&E man in the greater metropolitan Atlanta area again.

Nothing for a few pages but a list of names could be a register of slaves.

It’s a list of the damned. Burnett Lowe was staring straight ahead at something only he could see. The joyful and happily damned.

I’m getting good and Goddamn sick of you talk-- Hal’s words died on his lips for he was suddenly aware of a low moan, coming seemingly out of thin air; for an instant he had thought Lowe was the source of the growling, but quickly realized it had a glottal and thick tone that no human could make.

What the motherfuck? He heard Larry exclaim.

Hal was about to reply when the growl suddenly ratcheted up into a snarl of rage, and his mind was filled with the image of a hairy snout, it’s ragged, drooling lips drawn back to reveal a row of jagged fangs as sharp and nasty as the teeth of a bear trap. Then abruptly as it had started, the snarling fell silent; Hal instinctively looked down at the floor and understood for the first time that what they’d been hearing was coming from beneath them.

You woke them up, Lowe whispered. I warned you not to read any of it. As if to underscore what he was saying, a hissing noise now rose up from the floorboards; Hal had to fight the urge to jump, for he expected to see a rattlesnake suddenly sidewinder its way between his boots. Then, just like the snarl before it, the snake like noise ceased just as abruptly.

"Lowe." It floated up from below in the silence that followed, hoarse and grating but leaving Hal in no doubt as to what he’d heard.

You son of a bitch, Hal thundered as he reached down and grabbed the little bastard with both hands, tossing the black book aside in the process. You said this place would be empty and we took your word for it. Is that your old Queen of a boss down there? Trying to scare us away with stupid fuckin’ animal noises? Like we’re children. Spittle sprayed across Lowe’s face as the little bastard winced.

"Run, right now! Lowe gasped out, You might still have a chance."

That wouldn’t do me a whole hell of a lot of good, because I’m looking at my third strike and that means if I go away again, I’ll be wearing depends the next time I draw a free breath. So I don’t have much to lose in this situation and that means you would be strongly advised to tell me the truth. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Burnett Lowe? In the blink of an eye the whole situation had turned to shit and Hal could feel his fury reaching a boiling point, but underneath it all, when he got down to the bottom line, Hal Duckett was absolutely terrified of going back behind bars. Prison life had not agreed with him and the thought of spending a good chunk of the rest of his life there was something his mind recoiled from as if the very thought itself was raw sewage.

You got a hell of lot more to lose than you think you got, was Lowe’s reply.

It made Hal want to smash Lowe in the mouth, but suddenly Larry was standing beside them, the 9MM Glock he always kept under his front seat in hand; Hal hadn’t noticed his partner leave to go out to the Oldsmobile and retrieve it. Hal, take it easy, Larry said. Let’s just take this one step at a time and the first step is finding out who the hell is down in the basement.

The wheels in his mind turned, and in a millisecond, Hal knew what the last step was going to be, a bullet in the back of the head for cousin Eldon and (going to hate to do it) most likely Larry as well. Three can keep a secret only if two are dead. Something to that order had been on Carlos Marcello’s desk down in New Orleans and he was Mafia boss behind Kennedy’s assassination or so one legend had it. And what was about to happen in this house in this shit-for-nothing spot in south Georgia was going to have to remain a secret if he was to stay on the right side of those prison bars.

Where’s the door to the basement? In his mind Hal knew exactly how it was going down and though he had never committed murder before, he absolutely knew it would no longer be true before the long day was done.

Back in the kitchen, Lowe answered.

Show us, Hal ordered shoved Lowe forward and the three of them made their way down the hall to the kitchen. It was wide and spacious, as befitting a great house; but Hal saw that it was also noticeably clean and neat, not even a dish or drinking glass left to dry in the sink.

The door to the basement might well have been mistaken for a closet entrance if Lowe had not pointed it out; it was wooden and painted in the same dull lime green as the rest of the kitchen.

Hal let go of Lowe and turned to his partner. You ready to do this? Things were about to get hard core and he needed to know if he could count on Larry.

Got your back, was his partner’s reply as he took a stance with the Glock pointed dead center at the doorway, an obvious precaution in case the source of those animal noises decided to put in an appearance.

Hal nodded and stepped forward, turned the door’s knob and flung it open; in front of them a set of wooden steps disappeared into an almost impossibly inky darkness below. Anybody down there had to be stone blind.

You down there, it’s time to show yourself, Hal barked into the pool of black below. And get your ass up here.

A moment of quiet followed as Hal listened intently, half expecting a repeat of the animal snarl or the reptile’s hiss, but what he heard was neither of those; instead a peal of laughter floated up from the darkness. The voice was unmistakably that of a young woman, to Hal’s ear it sounded like the clinking of wind chimes in a summer breeze. Something in it brought to mind the softness of white sand on a Florida beach and of intimacy in a darkened bedroom looking out on the Gulf of Mexico.

It would be like heaven.

Memories of long forgotten pleasures suddenly flashed in his mind. Almost without thinking, Hal reached through the door and flipped a light switch; at the bottom of the steps a naked bulb, dangling from the end of a frayed cord attached to a