The Sword of God - John Milton #5 (John Milton Thrillers) Read online

  Lester Grogan? He was willing to bet that the sheriff was dead.

  Milton had tried to persuade himself that he was done with Death.

  But Death, it seemed, was not done with him.

  It had a habit of finding him, even when he cast himself so far out into the wilderness that he might as well have been in another world. He had been able to bury his old urges and instincts, bury them so deep that he had almost been able to forget them, but Morten Lundquist had roused them.

  He would have to account for that.

  There would be a price to pay.

  The scream in his head was baying for their blood.

  And Milton wouldn’t be able to rest until he had drowned himself in it.

  He knew that Lundquist and the others would keep coming for him. They already outnumbered him. Maybe there would be others, too. He had no weapon, save a kitchen knife and a pistol with one shot in the chamber. He was badly wounded.

  But if Lundquist did persevere, if he came after him, he would give him a demonstration that would make him wish he had never been born.

  Chapter 24

  MORTEN LUNDQUIST stood over the body of George Pelham and shone his flashlight down into his face. His eyes were still open, unblinking into the bright light, but his head had fallen at a loose, odd angle that told Lundquist all he needed to know. George had been the son of George Senior and Patricia, good friends of Lundquist and his wife, who had lived in Truth for years. George Junior, who was barely more than a boy, had been involved in the militia for little more than a month. They had needed a little more manpower to help keep the FBI distracted and off the scent of Michael and the others. He had been glad to join. He was a pious man, like his parents.

  Another martyr for the Sword of God.

  “What do you want us to do with him?” Leland Mulligan asked, pointing down at the dead man.

  “Nothing.”

  “We can’t…”

  “We need to call it in.”

  “And what do we say?”

  Lundquist paused as he considered that. Whoever this Milton was, he was either the luckiest man alive, or he knew what he was doing. He had evaded their ambush at the RV and then he had hidden in the corn and picked off the one weak link in the cordon of men who had penned him in. Most people would have run for the forest, and most people would have been shot.

  He had heard plenty about the SAS.

  Seemed that they were as good as advertised.

  He shoved his pistol back into his holster. He had been a policeman for years, ever since he left the army, and he’d never seen anything quite like this. The last man to have been murdered in Truth had been Stephen O’Reilly, ten years back, and he had been stabbed by his wife for messing around with Bill Pascoe’s daughter. This, though?

  This was something else.

  And more importantly, all this havoc was putting their fulfilment of God's word at risk.

  The vice president was due in Minneapolis in four days. They couldn’t let this drag out, start to affect timings, start to affect what God had told him to do.

  Lundquist couldn’t tolerate that.

  He turned to the men. “Listen up. I’m going to go back to town, and I’m going to raise the militia.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Everyone. But you need to stay here. My best guess, Milton has gone straight into the woods, and he’s going to keep going. He’ll expect us to come on after him. I want you to form a cordon, five hundred yards between you. You can cover a mile.”

  “And if he comes out?” Leland asked.

  “We shoot him,” Michael said.

  Leland looked apprehensive.

  Lundquist snapped, “He’s not going to come out, Private. He’s injured. He’s going to go deeper inside, and then he’s going to hide. But we can’t take any chances. That’s why you’re going to wait out here for me to get back with the others.”

  “Don’t worry,” his son said. “We’ve got this.”

  Lundquist looked at him and laid on the scepticism. “Really, Private? You think so?”

  His doubt stung the boy, he knew that. But Michael needed to be kept sharp. He needed to know that Lundquist had been disappointed by what he had allowed to happen up at the lake, and then at the Winnebago, and that he was going to have to earn his father’s trust again.

  “If he comes out, I guarantee you, sir, he is dead.”

  “See that he is.”

  Lundquist saluted. The men returned the gesture.

  Michael grinned. Lundquist could see that the boy was excited. That was fair enough, in the circumstances. Hell, Lundquist felt the buzz of adrenaline himself. Leading out a posse of men to track down a fugitive? That kind of thing didn’t happen any more.

  LUNDQUIST HURRIED back through the field of corn, passed the wrecked Winnebago, clambered up the embankment, crossed the railroad, and then slid down the other side. He ran to the cruiser, got inside, started the engine, and then set off down the road. He took the radio off the hook and pressed it to his ear.

  “State police,” he said into the receiver. “State police, this is Truth. Truth to State police, come in, please.”

  “State police to Truth. Is that you, Morten?”

  “Nancy?”

  “That’s right. What’s gotten into you?”

  He fed her the story he had prepared: they had a man on the run who had killed three police officers, including the sheriff. He told her that the man had been pursued into the woods north of the Presque Isle River. He explained that he was armed and extremely dangerous.

  “Jesus H Christ, Morten. Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” he said, unable to hide his impatience. He needed to be on the move.

  “What do you need?”

  “Every available man up here as soon as possible. He’s in the woods. We need to set up a cordon to keep him there. We need to set up a box: men on the railroad to the south, the river to the north, and ten miles either side.”

  “And then what?”

  “I’m leading a posse to get him.”

  Nancy said she would sound the alert, told him to stay safe, and ended the call.

  He swung the car onto the road into town. He reached down and changed frequencies.

  “This is Lundquist. Repeat, this is Lundquist. Come in.”

  Seth Olsen answered. “Morten. What in God’s name is going on tonight?”

  “Has Morris arrived?”

  “Not yet.”

  “All right. Listen up. He’s bringing the Stanton kids and the girl from the FBI.”

  “Want to tell me what for?”

  Lundquist ran through what had happened.

  “Okay,” Seth said when he was done. “I’ll put them in the barn.”

  “You keep them there. You got two dead bodies coming, too. Sellar and Sturgess. You need to get rid of them.”

  Seth clucked his tongue. “I guess the pigs haven’t been fed today.”

  “Do whatever you need to do. We can’t have any trace of them left. As far as everyone else is concerned, they never came out of the woods. The FBI is going to be back up here again and, if they find out they were around, they’re going to start to doubt my story.”

  “Relax. There won’t be a scrap. You know what the pigs are like. Those big old gals, they’ll eat them from the tops of their heads to the tips of their toes.”

  Lundquist relaxed a little. Seth was his brigade captain. He had years in the army, too. If he said he was going to do something, he did it, and it stayed done. He was married to Magrethe, another solid recruit to the cause, another person upon whom he knew that he could rely. Lars Olsen was their son. Lundquist knew he should tell Seth that their boy was dead, killed by Milton, but he didn’t want to distract him from the tasks that he needed him to do now. It would keep. Better to do it face to face.

  “Did you call the men?”

  “As many as we could. The phones are down again, cell towers and landlines this time. We must’ve gotten
around half of them before it happened. I’m about to go and get the rest. They’ve started to arrive. We’re putting them in the other barn. Where are you?”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Out.”

  Chapter 25

  MALLORY STANTON was in the back of a van. It was only medium sized and it was cramped, barely enough space for her, Arty, and Ellie Flowers, plus the two bodies that they had loaded inside. Ellie was next to Mallory, her head resting on her right shoulder. She could feel the woman’s breath warm against her throat. Arty was opposite her, slumped across the floor of the van. She could hear the rattle of his breathing. Both of them were unconscious.

  Mallory didn’t want to look to her left. One of the dead bodies was pressed up against her. She didn’t know whether it was Sturgess or Sellar, but, whoever it was, his body was close enough that it slumped closer to her whenever they took a corner. The storm was raging outside and the lightning, when it came, blasted a moment of silver light between the cracks in the rear doors. Mallory had looked, once, and had seen the shape of the bodies, one piled atop the other, the fingers of an upturned hand brushing against her ankle.

  She hadn’t looked again.

  She heard a deep groan from the darkness.

  “Arty!”

  Her brother had rushed Morten Lundquist after Ellie had been struck, and he had been jabbed, hard, with the butt of the rifle. The blow had knocked him out, and he still hadn’t come around.

  “Arty!”

  He groaned again, but he didn’t lift his head.

  “Mallory?” Ellie’s voice was weak and thin, shot through with pain.

  “I’m here.”

  Mallory felt Ellie lift her head from her shoulder.

  “Are you okay?” she said, her voice little more than a raspy croak.

  “Yes. I’m fine.”

  “Your brother?”

  “They hit him. He was knocked out.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “They hit you, too.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “How do you feel?”

  She heard Ellie exhale. “Not good. Like my head’s about to split.”

  The handcuffs that they had used were loose on her wrists, and Mallory had thought that, if she tried hard enough, she might be able to force her way out of them. She had strained as hard as she could, but in the end, all she had done was to turn scrapes and abrasions into cuts that had quickly become bloody. She could feel a single warm droplet as it ran down the inside of her wrist into her palm.

  “There’s an opening up there,” Ellie said. “Can you see where we’re going?”

  There were no proper windows in back and the narrow slit in the panel that separated them from the driver was high up. Mallory tried to stand. She wasn’t quite tall enough to see through it and her balance was impeded by having her hands secured behind her back. She was quickly thrown against the side of the van as they took a sharp corner. She overbalanced and dropped down onto the bodies behind her. She shrieked, throwing herself off of them.

  “Shit, shit, shit!”

  “Mallory?”

  “Sellar and Sturgess. They’re dead.”

  “What?”

  “Milton killed them. He did it like it was nothing. You didn’t see?”

  “I was pretty out of it. They’re back there?”

  “Yes.” Mallory slid away from them as much as she could and rested with her arms pressed between her back and the side of the vehicle. “What happened to you?”

  “They jumped me at the station,” Ellie said. “The deputy—”

  “Lundquist.”

  “He shot the sheriff.”

  Mallory hugged her knees to her chest.

  “Where’s Milton?” Ellie asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You better tell me what happened.”

  She breathed in and out, composing her thoughts.

  She told her about Leland turning up at the RV and trying to get her to come to the station.

  She told her about Michael Callow.

  She told her about how Milton had appeared out of nowhere, how he had killed Sellar and Sturgess just like that, as easy as shelling peas. She told her how she had watched him bury her old kitchen knife in Sturgess’s gut, yanking it all the way up even as he turned to face Leland, taking his gun from him and shooting Sellar in the head, like it was something he did every day.

  She told her how Callow had grabbed her, how Milton had aimed the pistol, and how she had known that he was going to fire.

  And then how Milton had been shot.

  By Morten Lundquist.

  What was happening to them?

  What had they run into?

  “They didn’t kill him?”

  She shook her head. “Shot him in the arm. He got the RV started and drove off. The deputy and Callow went after him.”

  “He’s gone?”

  She nodded. “You think he’s abandoned us?”

  “No,” she said. “I don’t.”

  Mallory squeezed her legs tighter, crushing them against her chest. She wished she had the same confidence.

  “Who’s driving?” Ellie asked.

  “Morris Finch. He’s a plumber. This is his van.”

  “Mallory?” The voice was faint and befuddled. “Mallory?”

  “I’m here, Arty!”

  Lightning flashed, and she saw his head move as he slowly brought it up.

  “Are you okay?”

  “My head,” he mumbled.

  “You got your ticket punched. You feel okay?”

  “Dizzy.”

  “Stay down there, then. It’ll clear.”

  “Eric and Reggie are dead.”

  “They got what was coming to them, Arty,” Mallory said, iron in her voice.

  “Is Ellie here?”

  “I’m here.”

  Mallory heard her brother shuffle around in Ellie’s direction.

  “Deputy Morten hit you, Ellie.”

  “I’m okay. I’ll live.”

  “Why did he hit you? She wasn’t doing nothing, was she, Mallory?”

  “No, she wasn’t.”

  “I don’t understand. Where are we?”

  Mallory composed herself. She knew she would need to stay calm or else he would freak, and that would just make things worse. But she would have to say something. “We’re in the back of Morris Finch’s van.”

  “Why?”

  “Michael Callow and Tom Chandler are angry with us.”

  “And Deputy Lundquist.”

  “Yes, and Deputy Lundquist. They’re taking us someplace. I think they want to talk to us.”

  “Why are they angry with us? Is it because of Mr. Milton?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I think it might be. Just stay there, okay? It’ll all be straightened out soon.”

  “And then we can go home?”

  “Yes,” she said, trying very hard to hide the fear in her voice.

  Ellie spoke for her. “That’s right, Arthur. It’ll all be straightened out, and then we can go home. Mallory, do you have a cellphone?”

  “No, and it wouldn’t matter. The storm’s taken the network out.”

  “Really?”

  “Was on the news.”

  “Maybe it’s fixed now. It’s worth a try. Do you think Sellar and Sturgess might have one?”

  Her stomach flipped. “You want me to look?”

  “I don’t know how easy it’d be for me to get over there.”

  She swallowed and turned around so that her back was facing the two dead bodies. By leaning backwards a little she was able to reach over to them and pat them down. She felt something in the breast pocket of the body nearest her, reached her hand inside, and pulled out a Motorola cellphone. She turned her back to Ellie and backed into the middle of the van so that she could pass the phone across.

  “Thanks.”

  Mallory saw a faint green glow from the other side of the van. Ellie had activated the cellphone, and the l
ight from the screen glowed.

  “No signal.”

  “It’s the whole state north of Wausau.”

  “That’s great.”

  The van rumbled onwards, taking them farther away from town and into the countryside beyond.

  Ellie used the light from the cellphone to look around the inside of the van. Mallory saw racks of plumbing equipment above them, pipes and sockets and screws, and then, before she could stop herself, the confusion of arms and legs that was Sturgess and Sellar.

  “Oh, God.”

  “Mallory, I need you to do something for me,” Ellie said.

  She closed her eyes, and she could still see them.

  “Mallory.”

  “Yes?”

  “If I give you a number, will you be able to remember it?”

  She opened her eyes and stared across at the faint outline of her brother. “Arty can. He’s great with numbers.”

  That was an understatement. Arty had plenty of problems. But if there was one thing he was good at, it was remembering things. Mallory remembered the time when she had read aloud a page of the Truth telephone directory and he had recited back the first hundred names, just like that. The doctors they had seen when he was a little boy said that was one of the things that people with his condition could sometimes do.

  “Arty,” she said, “I need you to pay special attention, okay? Agent Ellie needs you to remember a number. Can you do that for her?”

  “Sure, Mallory.”

  “It’s very important.”

  “What is it? I’ll remember it. I’m good with numbers.”

  “I know you are. Go on, Ellie.”

  “Okay. Ready? 313-338-7786.”

  Mallory recognised it as a Detroit telephone number. “Have you got it?” she asked him.

  “Sure,” he said, as if what he had been asked to do, and the circumstances in which he had been asked to do it, were perfectly normal for him.

  “Repeat it to me.”

  “313-338-7786.”

  “Good.”

  “What do I need the number for?” he asked her.

  “That’s my partner’s number. Agent Clayton. I don’t know where they’re taking us, but maybe there’s a chance one of us can get away. If we can, we need to call him.”

  “The phones are down…”

  “Maybe they’ll be fixed then. He’ll be able to help us.”