Part 33 (2/2)
”Happens all the time.”
Phil walked up to Sullivan, who was now chicken-winged in front of the other two guards. ”Think about it, Paulie. You got no one else to play ball with.”
”Go ahead and take a shot if ya want,” one of the detention officers said. ”What's funny about us prison guards is we got really bad vision.”
”No, I think I've f.u.c.ked with him enough today. You can take Mr. Sullivan back to his suite now.”
”You f.u.c.kin' cops are all alike,” Sullivan growled as the guards tugged at him. ”One day I'm gonna bust your head.”
”Paul, by the time you get out of here, you'll be so old you won't be able to bust an egg. I'll let you sit a few more days in general pop, then maybe I'll come back and see if you're ready to have another chat.”
”What the h.e.l.l is wrong with you?” Mullins asked, gawking from behind his desk. ”Last night you get in a shootout and wind up killing six Creekers, and today you're getting your a.s.s kicked by prisoners.”
”Not kicked,” Phil corrected. ”Royally kicked. The guy went bonkers. I was playing with him, sure, and not exactly telling the truth about some things, but he went schizo on me. Took three screws to pull him off.”
”And the f.u.c.ker didn't give you the loke on Natter's lab?”
”Nope. He gave me everything but. I already called the county tac team; they'll be checking out that other lab. But as far as Natter goes, I struck out.”
”He'll never spin on Natter,” Mullins said. ”If he does, he knows Natter's people will be waiting for him the second he walks out of the pokey. And he knows what they'll do. These other guys-they're lightweights, and guys like Sullivan ain't afraid of lightweights. But Natter and his Creekers?”
”Different story,” Phil agreed. ”You're right. I didn't even think that that could be the reason he squealed on his own outfit but not Natter's.”
Mullins scanned Phil's notes which he'd uncrumpled before he'd left the lockup. ”Good work. I can't wait for the county to bust this new lab.”
”Natter'll probably be pretty happy about it, too,” Phil observed. ”There goes his compet.i.tion. But we still gotta get him.” Oh, yes, he thought. It was personal now, or perhaps it had always been. All he had to do was remember what Natter had done to Vicki, not to mention having Eagle killed. And then there's always me, he reminded himself. Only now was he fully realizing how close he'd come to getting killed last night.
”Sullivan said something weird,” he pointed out next. ”I asked him if he knew what those words meant-”
”What words?” Mullins asked, replenis.h.i.+ng his bloated jowl with chewing tobacco.
”Those weird words the Creeker kid said just before I blew him away. Sullivan didn't know what they meant, but he did know they were Creeker words. 'Creeker talk' he called it.”
”Just proves Sullivan knows more about Natter's people than he's letting on.”
”Yeah, I know. But he said something else, too. He said that the Creekers were cannibals.”
”Wives' tales,” Mullins suggested. ”I been hearin' s.h.i.+t like that since I was a kid. It's stuff our daddies dreamed up to keep us in line. 'You don't shut up and go to sleep, the Creekers'll come and get ya.'”
”Yeah, sure, local legends and all that. I remember some of those stories, too. But Sullivan said one more thing that was pretty specific. He said the Creekers have their own religion.”
Mullins expectorated into his cup. ”Oh, you mean they ain't Catholic?” he attempted to joke.
Phil gazed blankly out the window. It was getting dark now, the smudged panes filling up with twilight. Their own religion, he recited. In the black sky, stars shone like swirls of crushed gemstones.
I wonder what it is they wors.h.i.+p.
”Ona,” the Reverend voiced to himself.
His voice was a black chasm, incalculable, endless like the night. The Reverend wore raiments just as black. Just as incalculable...
The shadow stirred in the corner. The Reverend could feel the miraculous heat, could smell the exalted stench.
Oh, how long we've waited, his thoughts wept in joy.
Ages.
No, a hundred ages.
He thought of things then, beautiful things. He thought of the recompense of all the truth of history. Of a time when the slaves would be freed of their fetters, when they would be praised instead of reviled, glorified instead of cursed. He thought of a time when he too would walk with his brethren through the holiest dark channelworks, amid the savory smoke of burning human fat and steaming blood, to gladly pay homage, and to eat, a time when he too, and all of them, would pull the flesh off the bones of the faithless, sink deft fingers into their wide open eyes, and strip their skulls of their pitiable faces. Their screams would ring out like the sweetest madrigals. They would inhale their blood and scarf their unchaste flesh forever and ever.
Yes, the Reverend thought of the most wondrous things.
Ona...
The Reverend bowed, then fell to his knees, his arms red with blood to the elbows.
Soon, your time will be upon us.
And from the stygian dark, his G.o.d looked back at him and smiled.
Twenty-Seven.
”Hi,” Phil said.
The station door slammed. Susan trudged in, a knapsack full of her school books tugging at her arm.
”Need some help with those books?”
”No.” She dropped the sack at the foot of her desk, then sat down at her commo console and prepared for work.
”How was school tonight?”
Susan frowned at him. She wasn't biting on the cursory small talk, but then Phil never really guessed that she would.
”What are you doing here?” she asked.
”Talking to the chief.” He shuffled his feet, looking down. He felt like a little kid sent to the princ.i.p.al's office. ”Then I thought I'd hang around awhile, wait till you got in.”
”Why?” Susan sniped, checking the hot sheet and county blotter.
<script>