Read Online Harmony Black by Craig Schaefer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Craig Schaefer
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this bar, at any given time of day. Mr. Bredford is, in Vladimir’s words, ‘a bit of a walking disaster.’”
Out in the parking lot, I asked if Jessie wanted to drive. She took a long look at the Crown Victoria, put her hands on her hips, and said, “It looks even worse in the morning light, doesn’t it?”
I took that as her answer and kept the keys.
“We have a standard routine when we’re approaching occult-underground types,” she said. We drove away from the shoreline, pointing the car’s nose along a forest road that coasted up and down massive, rough hills. “We prefer going in undercover. The fewer people who know about Vigilant Lock, the better it is for everybody.”
“And this Vladimir, he’s your cover?”
“Bingo. Anybody calls his number, he’ll tell them we’ve been customers for years and totally vouch for us. Every major player in the underground either knows Vlad or knows of him, so that builds our cred. Just follow my lead; you’ll do fine.”
Douglas Bredford lived in a town that barely qualified for a name, just a crossroads and a trailer park on the far edge of nowhere. April’s address led us to the Brew House, a gray wooden shack with busted-out windows and a front porch made from a line of two-by-fours.
The gravel strip of parking out front was almost empty, save for a battered old pickup truck that sported more rust than original paint. Rolls of twine held the back bumper on, and one of the side mirrors was completely gone.
“This job takes us to the nicest places,” Jessie said as I pulled in a few spots down from the truck.
Scratchy speakers over the bar played an old country tune as we walked in, a screen door swinging shut behind us. The bartender didn’t look up from his magazine. We were the only customers in sight, except for the man with the salt-and-pepper beard and trucker cap sitting in a booth in the back.
Deep lines marred his face, and the hand that gripped his bottle of Budweiser trembled like a leaf in a stiff wind. His rheumy eyes couldn’t seem to focus on much of anything.
“Mr. Bredford,” Jessie said. “Sorry to bother you, but we’re with the Church of Starry Wisdom in Rhode Island, just passing through. Our friend Vladimir says you’re the person to know around here.”
He took a long pull on his bottle, looking us over.
“My ‘friend’ Vlad is a double-dealing son of a bitch, and if you two aren’t cops I’ll eat my hat. No.” He looked my way. “Feds. I was on the job for almost thirty years, lady. Clocked you the second you walked in the door. Well, sit down, say what you’re gonna say.”
We obliged him, sliding into the booth across from him. Cracked red vinyl padded the bench, patched over here and there with strips of duct tape.
“Cambion,” Jessie said. “Three of them. Locals. We want them.”
Douglas snorted and drank his beer. “Forget you, lady. I don’t need that kind of trouble.”
“The bad news is, we’re putting somebody in handcuffs today. Them, or you. The good news is, you get to choose.”
“I ain’t done anything,” Douglas said, squinting at her. “You’ve got no grounds to arrest me.”
Jessie smiled thinly. “Given that we know what cambion are, you’ve probably sussed that we’re not the regular kind of feds.”
“Noticed that, yeah.”
“We don’t take people to the regular kind of prison, either,” she said. “You go to the special one. Offshore. And you never come back.”
“You can’t—you can’t do that,” he said, pushing his shoulders back and sticking his chin up, “I’ve got rights .”
She was losing him. The shock-and-awe approach works on some suspects, but more often than not, it just backs them into a corner and clams them up. I gently put my hand on the table. Not touching him, but close.
“Mr. Bredford, a child has been kidnapped.”
He looked my way. “Not their usual style.”
“They didn’t do it, but we think they know who did. This is a
Out in the parking lot, I asked if Jessie wanted to drive. She took a long look at the Crown Victoria, put her hands on her hips, and said, “It looks even worse in the morning light, doesn’t it?”
I took that as her answer and kept the keys.
“We have a standard routine when we’re approaching occult-underground types,” she said. We drove away from the shoreline, pointing the car’s nose along a forest road that coasted up and down massive, rough hills. “We prefer going in undercover. The fewer people who know about Vigilant Lock, the better it is for everybody.”
“And this Vladimir, he’s your cover?”
“Bingo. Anybody calls his number, he’ll tell them we’ve been customers for years and totally vouch for us. Every major player in the underground either knows Vlad or knows of him, so that builds our cred. Just follow my lead; you’ll do fine.”
Douglas Bredford lived in a town that barely qualified for a name, just a crossroads and a trailer park on the far edge of nowhere. April’s address led us to the Brew House, a gray wooden shack with busted-out windows and a front porch made from a line of two-by-fours.
The gravel strip of parking out front was almost empty, save for a battered old pickup truck that sported more rust than original paint. Rolls of twine held the back bumper on, and one of the side mirrors was completely gone.
“This job takes us to the nicest places,” Jessie said as I pulled in a few spots down from the truck.
Scratchy speakers over the bar played an old country tune as we walked in, a screen door swinging shut behind us. The bartender didn’t look up from his magazine. We were the only customers in sight, except for the man with the salt-and-pepper beard and trucker cap sitting in a booth in the back.
Deep lines marred his face, and the hand that gripped his bottle of Budweiser trembled like a leaf in a stiff wind. His rheumy eyes couldn’t seem to focus on much of anything.
“Mr. Bredford,” Jessie said. “Sorry to bother you, but we’re with the Church of Starry Wisdom in Rhode Island, just passing through. Our friend Vladimir says you’re the person to know around here.”
He took a long pull on his bottle, looking us over.
“My ‘friend’ Vlad is a double-dealing son of a bitch, and if you two aren’t cops I’ll eat my hat. No.” He looked my way. “Feds. I was on the job for almost thirty years, lady. Clocked you the second you walked in the door. Well, sit down, say what you’re gonna say.”
We obliged him, sliding into the booth across from him. Cracked red vinyl padded the bench, patched over here and there with strips of duct tape.
“Cambion,” Jessie said. “Three of them. Locals. We want them.”
Douglas snorted and drank his beer. “Forget you, lady. I don’t need that kind of trouble.”
“The bad news is, we’re putting somebody in handcuffs today. Them, or you. The good news is, you get to choose.”
“I ain’t done anything,” Douglas said, squinting at her. “You’ve got no grounds to arrest me.”
Jessie smiled thinly. “Given that we know what cambion are, you’ve probably sussed that we’re not the regular kind of feds.”
“Noticed that, yeah.”
“We don’t take people to the regular kind of prison, either,” she said. “You go to the special one. Offshore. And you never come back.”
“You can’t—you can’t do that,” he said, pushing his shoulders back and sticking his chin up, “I’ve got rights .”
She was losing him. The shock-and-awe approach works on some suspects, but more often than not, it just backs them into a corner and clams them up. I gently put my hand on the table. Not touching him, but close.
“Mr. Bredford, a child has been kidnapped.”
He looked my way. “Not their usual style.”
“They didn’t do it, but we think they know who did. This is a
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