Jenny Plague-Bringer(27)

“We’re looking into some events that happened here in town last Easter,” Ward said. “Chemical leak from an old factory. Lots of people dead.”

“Um...” Darrell looked confused. “I don’t know much about that.”

“We understand your daughter was involved,” Darrell said. “She was among the deceased, is that right?”

“Yeah. I mean, no. I mean, yeah, she died, but it was in a fire at the old Barrett house. About a year ago.” He was looking away and avoiding eye contact. Lying, and not very good at it.

“The fire at the Barrett house is also of interest to us,” Ward said. “You see, Mr. Morton, your daughter’s remains were not found. She may still be alive.”

Darrell’s widened and he took a step back from the screen door. “No, she was there. If she was still alive, she’d be back home. I haven’t seen her since the fire.”

“That’s our concern,” Ward said. “It’s possible she could have been injured or kidnapped. Perhaps even suffered amnesia. We just won’t know until we piece together what really happened the night of the fire, will we, Mr. Morton?”

“I don’t want to dredge all this up,” Darrell Morton said. “If she was alive, I’d know it.” He started to close the wooden front door inside the screen.

Ward opened the screen door and blocked him from closing the inner door.

“Mr. Morton, if there’s even the smallest chance your daughter is still alive, wouldn’t you want to know about it? I have three kids of my own, and as a parent, I just can’t understand your reaction.” Ward actually had no children, and was not even married.

“I know what happened,” Darrell said, still trying to close the door as Ward held it open. “Please. You can’t stir up all this.”

“Mr. Morton.” Ward gave the door a hard shove, swinging it wide open and sending the man stumbling backward into his own house. Darrell caught himself on the arm of a worn old sofa.

Ward advanced into the house, followed by Buchanan and Avery.

“Hey, you can’t come in here! This is private property,” Darrell said. “You got to have a warrant.”

“If you want to be picky about it, yes,” Ward said, moving closer still to the scared man. Ward’s hand eased toward the shoulder holster hidden beneath his coat. It held a rare German machine pistol, the VP70M, a classic piece that had cost him a chunk of money, but he loved it. He rarely got to use it, unfortunately. He had no intention of shooting Darrell Morton today, but country dwellers sometimes had impressive arsenals in their homes, and it was best to be ready for it.

“Get out of my house,” Darrell said quietly, folding his arms. “Unless you got a warrant.”

“There is a slight problem with the warrant situation,” Ward said. “You see, we’re not actually from the FBI.”

Darrell turned and ran toward the hall—probably to his bedroom to grab a firearm, Ward assumed. Ward drew his pistol and fired a three-round burst into the ceiling above Darrell’s head. The man ducked low, slowing enough that Avery and Buchanan had no trouble grabbing him and hauling him back. They turned him to face Ward.

This was exactly why Ward traveled with two men instead of just Buchanan. Two trained soldiers were capable of restraining just about any normal individual so Ward could concentrate on his own special work.

“Mr. Morton,” Ward said. “You must know that your daughter is a mass murderer. You must know that she is a potential threat to national security. Your own wife ran away after her birth...or did she run away at all, Mr. Morton? What about that fire at the county hospital, Mr. Morton? A doctor and a nurse both dead. It was twenty years ago, right about the time little Jenny was born...am I right?”

Darrell just stared at him.

“I think Jenny killed your wife, didn’t she?” Ward spoke in a lower voice, moving closer to Darrell. “And you hid it. All to protect a baby who would one day grow up and kill your town. And what will she do next, Mr. Morton? How many more people must die? Why do you protect her?”

“She’s dead,” Darrell said. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Ward punched the man in the mouth, hard enough to draw blood from his lip. “I can’t stand liars, Mr. Morton.”

“I got nothing else to say to you,” Darrell said. He spat blood in Ward’s face.

Ward charged as a blind fury descended over him. He pounded on Darrell’s face, then punched him in the stomach. By the time Ward regained his senses, he had Darrell lying on the floor and was repeatedly kicking the man’s ribs with his steel-toed leather loafer, with additional assistance from a chuckling Avery.