Jenny Plague-Bringer(26)

“What is this place?” Ward muttered.

“Looks like a graveyard, sir,” Avery replied.

“I can see that. Looks like a graveyard for generations of people who haven’t been born yet. Fucking rich weirdos,” Ward muttered.

The earth in front of Carter’s grave was churned up like something had dug its way in or out. As Ward continued walking, he saw all of the graves with death dates were like that.

“What the hell happened here?” Ward asked. “Don’t see why Homeland Security would dig up all these graves.”

“Maybe they didn’t, sir,” Buchanan said. “It could be like the security video from the morgue in Charleston. The walking dead, sir.”

“The walking dead.” Ward frowned. They even had the “zombie master” on video, for what it was worth. A grainy image of a tall guy in dark sunglasses with longish hair. “How many paranormals are we talking about now? The little diseased girl, the healing rich kid, and some zombie master guy? I believe we have stepped into some shit here, gentlemen.” One of the dark granite slabs near the back was labeled JONATHAN SETH BARRETT. “This must have been a hell of a guy, this first Jonathan Seth Barrett. They planned to name unborn generations after him. What kind of freaks are we dealing with?”

Buchanan wore a thoughtful look. Avery blew his nose into a handkerchief.

“Getting a cold, Avery?” Ward asked.

“Must be allergies, sir.” Avery wiped his eyes.

“Get it together, Avery,” Ward said. He looked around the churned-up graveyard one more time. “There’s nothing for us here. Let’s move on to the next objective.”

They returned to their black Chrysler 300C sedan, which was modified with armored plates inside the body panels and bulletproof glass for the windows. It was faster and quieter than when it had arrived from the factory, and loaded with heavily encrypted communications equipment that was a bit more advanced than what was available on the open market. Despite all this, it looked like a perfectly normal car, at least to the casual observer.

They crossed through the decaying, boarded-up town. The largest remaining employer in the area, Winder Timber Processing, had shut down a year earlier. It had belonged to the mayor of Fallen Oak, who had died along with his wife and daughter the day little Jenny decided to kill a crowd of people. The records showed Mayor Winder’s relatives had inherited the business, taken one look at the books, and closed it down and sold off the machinery. Fallen Oak’s population was shrinking rapidly now. Ward doubted if anyone would still live here in ten years, except maybe a handful of elderly types with Social Security checks and nowhere to go.

The sedan’s information system had a few features that OnStar didn’t, including instant access to anyone’s financial, medical, criminal, and military records. It guided them to the red-dirt driveway of a rickety old house half-hidden in the woods outside town. A rusty dodge Ram squatted in the driveway. Darrell Morton was home.

“So this is where our little monster grew up,” Ward said from where he sat in the back seat. Avery and Buchanan were up front. “What a pathetic hellhole.”

Avery hurried to open Ward’s door. Ward led the way to the sagging boards of the front steps, automatically glancing in every direction, including up at the roof, watching for any sign of danger, anyone who might be hiding among the dense autumn leaves of the branches overhead. This was second nature to him. The leaves crunched under their shoes—otherwise, it was a quiet afternoon.

Inside the house, a man in a ragged t-shirt approached the screen door and looked out. The front door had already been open, indicating a possible lack of any centralized climate control. Ward knew this man could barely afford to get by month to month. He wondered how growing up in such an environment might have shaped Jennifer Morton’s mind.

“Darrell Morton,” Ward said as he climbed the creaky steps, followed by the two other men.

“Yeah?” The unshaven man in the dusty jeans looked out at them suspiciously. He was in his forties, but looked older.

“I’m Special Agent Ward Adams. Federal Bureau of Investigation.” Ward held up the Department of Justice badge, which was only half-fake. Anyone who called up the FBI to ask would be told he was a real agent, though almost nobody bothered to check once they saw the badge. “We just need to ask you a couple of quick questions, and then we’ll get out of your way.”

The man froze where he stood. He obviously knew exactly why the FBI would be visiting.

“What’s the trouble?” Darrell Morton asked in a shaky voice.