The Dark at the End
TUESDAY Chapter 9
Jack slowed his southward progress on 206 as he neared the light at Quakerton Road. The sun had sunk a while ago and darkness had settled. Eddie's BlackBerry had found an Enterprise car rental place but it had taken forever to reach it and do the paperwork. Jack figured he'd probably ruined John Tyleski's credit by abandoning his last rental on the South Fork, so he'd used a new credit card identity to rent a Pontiac G6. Not much of a car, but that wasn't a bad thing. It meant no one would pay much attention to it.
He let Eddie and Weezy keep the Crown Vic.
Was he doing the right thing, leaving Weezy and Eddie to go on alone? He wasn't comfortable with that but ...
He shook his head. Maybe it was just him, but he couldn't shake the feeling that they were missing something ... something that had to do with that sigil.
As he turned onto Quakerton he saw a pickup pull out onto 206 and head north. Looked familiar. That guy Tommy? What had he come back for? Something big, covered by a drape, sat on the bed of his truck. Most likely some of his equipment, but Jack had a feeling -
Enough with these damn feelings. Feelings-feelings-feelings. What the hell? They were driving him crazy. He needed facts, damn it.
He reached the Lodge, a pale blob against the darker trees behind it, and not a single light on inside. He parked a block down on the street and walked back. Old Town had fewer streetlights than the newer sections on the other side of the lake, and that was a good thing tonight. He'd taken his lock-pick set and bump keys from the Crown Vic and carried them now, along with a flashlight, plus one of Weezy's Sharpies and a pad, all in a small backpack slung over a shoulder.
He went straight to the back door. He'd noted the brand of the door lock before, so he had his Quickset bumps ready. The third one fit and in seconds he was in. Turning on his flashlight for only a second at a time for guidance, he found the basement door ... leaning against a wall. The black rectangle of the doorway gaped before him.
His gut twisted. Not good.
Discarding all discretion, he turned on the basement lights and pelted down the stairs. The basement looked different, rearranged since they'd left. He fairly ran to the opening in the floor. The ladder had been pulled out and lay beside it. He lowered it back into the hole and descended.
No sign of the sigil.
Shit.
Heart pounding, Jack raced back up the ladder. The sigil was too big to hide, so the only explanation was they'd removed it. That guy Tommy had been leaving Johnson. Had he had the sigil in the back of his truck?
What was his phone number? Weezy had rattled it off. She'd know. But as he pulled out his phone to call her, he heard her voice in his head reciting the number. Instead of speed-dialing her, he punched in that number. After two rings he reached the voice mail:
"You've reached Thomas Mulliner Excavating and Land Clearing Service. Leave a number and we'll call you back as soon as possible."
Got him. Jack left his cell number, said he had to speak to him ASAP.
So, Tommy was one of the Mulliner clan. The Pinelands were full of them, going back to revolutionary times. Jack wasn't going to sit around waiting for a call back that might not come till morning. He had to find a Mulliner with an excavating business.
He punched in 4-1-1.
He let Eddie and Weezy keep the Crown Vic.
Was he doing the right thing, leaving Weezy and Eddie to go on alone? He wasn't comfortable with that but ...
He shook his head. Maybe it was just him, but he couldn't shake the feeling that they were missing something ... something that had to do with that sigil.
As he turned onto Quakerton he saw a pickup pull out onto 206 and head north. Looked familiar. That guy Tommy? What had he come back for? Something big, covered by a drape, sat on the bed of his truck. Most likely some of his equipment, but Jack had a feeling -
Enough with these damn feelings. Feelings-feelings-feelings. What the hell? They were driving him crazy. He needed facts, damn it.
He reached the Lodge, a pale blob against the darker trees behind it, and not a single light on inside. He parked a block down on the street and walked back. Old Town had fewer streetlights than the newer sections on the other side of the lake, and that was a good thing tonight. He'd taken his lock-pick set and bump keys from the Crown Vic and carried them now, along with a flashlight, plus one of Weezy's Sharpies and a pad, all in a small backpack slung over a shoulder.
He went straight to the back door. He'd noted the brand of the door lock before, so he had his Quickset bumps ready. The third one fit and in seconds he was in. Turning on his flashlight for only a second at a time for guidance, he found the basement door ... leaning against a wall. The black rectangle of the doorway gaped before him.
His gut twisted. Not good.
Discarding all discretion, he turned on the basement lights and pelted down the stairs. The basement looked different, rearranged since they'd left. He fairly ran to the opening in the floor. The ladder had been pulled out and lay beside it. He lowered it back into the hole and descended.
No sign of the sigil.
Shit.
Heart pounding, Jack raced back up the ladder. The sigil was too big to hide, so the only explanation was they'd removed it. That guy Tommy had been leaving Johnson. Had he had the sigil in the back of his truck?
What was his phone number? Weezy had rattled it off. She'd know. But as he pulled out his phone to call her, he heard her voice in his head reciting the number. Instead of speed-dialing her, he punched in that number. After two rings he reached the voice mail:
"You've reached Thomas Mulliner Excavating and Land Clearing Service. Leave a number and we'll call you back as soon as possible."
Got him. Jack left his cell number, said he had to speak to him ASAP.
So, Tommy was one of the Mulliner clan. The Pinelands were full of them, going back to revolutionary times. Jack wasn't going to sit around waiting for a call back that might not come till morning. He had to find a Mulliner with an excavating business.
He punched in 4-1-1.
