Jenny Plague-Bringer

Chapter Nine



In Fallen Oak, the front gate to the Barrett House property was secured by lengths of chain and padlocks. Ward’s assistants, Buchanan and Avery, made short work of them with bolt-cutters, and then pushed open the heavy steel gate doors, which were flanked by very old stone lions.

Ward walked along the brick driveway, followed by the two younger men. Beyond a few ancient, mossy oaks near the front of the drive, the place looked like a wasteland. A huge amount of earth had been scorched black, any trees or grass long gone. In the year since Homeland Security had razed the place, spindly purple and pink flowers had colonized the vast burn scar.

The house itself was nothing but rubble, but from the few blackened hunks of brick wall that remained, Ward could see it had been an impressive structure at one time.

“They worked it over pretty good,” Ward said, kicking a cracked piece of the driveway. “Didn’t leave much for us to find, did they?”

“Sir,” Avery said, “As far as we can tell, the boy’s parents are at their house in Saint Augustine.”

“I know,” Ward told him. “The bad news is that his mother’s name is Iris Mayfield Barrett, the niece of Senator Junius Mayfield, who sits on the Armed Services Committee. That could get tricky. Good news is the senator just recently had a stroke and he’s in critical condition. If the old bastard would hurry up and die, we’d have less to worry about.”

“Should I put in a call?” Avery asked.

“Avery...” Ward sighed and shook his head. Buchanan had half a brain, but Ward just regarded Avery as extra muscle. “I will never tell you to make a call like that about a person like that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re going to focus on softer targets for now,” Ward told them. “The Morton girl’s father, and any other witnesses who might have something useful. I don’t think we’ll find much here...” Ward looked at a distant brick structure on a low hill, back behind where the house had stood. “What is that?”

“Looks like a walled garden, sir,” Buchanan said, squinting his eyes.

“It’s the only thing standing. Might as well check it out. We’re not going to find anything in this rubble.” Ward led the way around the foundation of the house and on through the torched remains of what might have been an orchard or a stand of decorative trees. Large slabs of dark gray granite led up the hill to a tall wrought-iron gate, which stood wide open. They had to step high, as if the stairs were meant for larger beings than humans. They reminded Ward of old megalithic structures he’d seen on the History Channel, where some moron was always claiming Stonehenge was built by aliens.

If extraterrestrials were visiting the planet, Ward’s agency would have known about it. The Anomalous Strategic Threat Research and Intelligence Agency (ASTRIA) was not known to the public. Their mission, dating back to the Eisenhower administration, had generally been to focus on “unknown unknowns,” in the words of a more recent Secretary of Defense. Originally founded in response to reports that the Soviet Union was investigating the use of psychics for intelligence-gathering and other strategic purposes, ASTRIA had looked into matters ranging from the supernatural to the extraterrestrial...almost never finding anything of importance to national security. Almost.

They walked through the open gate. Inside, there tall blocks of dark granite, arranged in rows, many of them inscribed with names but not dates. Each row had a generation of people named JONATHAN SETH BARRETT, followed by a Roman numeral. The most recent date that had been carved belong to the boy for whom they were searching: JONATHAN SETH BARRETT IV. It had a birth year, but no death year. Next to it was CARTER MAYFIELD BARRETT, born a few years before Seth, dead at the age of fourteen.

“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. F*cking 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.

“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.

“Stop, stop,” Ward said, shaking his head. “Need him alive. For a few more minutes, anyway.”

Ward squatted on the floor next to the groaning, bleeding Darrell Morton.

“We know your daughter is alive,” Ward told him. “We need to know where she is before she kills again. This is your last chance.”

Darrell blinked and didn’t say a word.

“All right, Mr. Morton.” Darrell seized both sides of the man’s head and shoved his way inside, ripping through terabytes of the man’s memory. He found the earliest that interested him: Darrell’s wife, Miriam, dying horrifically as she gave birth to Jenny. The doctor and nurse that had ended up dead from Jenny’s touch, too. Darrell setting the place on fire, taking his baby and his deceased wife with him. The wife had been buried under a stone cairn right here, in the woods on the Morton property. Darrell’s struggle to raise his daughter without touching her, using gloves and even ski masks. Like a man caring for a pet scorpion, pouring his love onto something hideous. Pathetic.

Darrell knew that his daughter had killed a large number of people in town, that she’d faked her own death with the fire, that she was still alive somewhere.

Unfortunately, Darrell did not know where. He only knew that it was being handled somehow by the Barretts, the rich, connected family of Jenny’s consort, Seth Barrett. The family Ward couldn’t risk disturbing, not while Senator Mayfield remained alive. It made perfect sense, and it was damned inconvenient for Ward.

Something unexpected jutted out from Darrell’s memories. The night of the riot in Charleston, a young man with dirty blond hair and odd gray eyes had broken into Darrell’s house and attacked him. He’d seized Darrell’s arms and filled him with mind-shattering nightmares. The next clear memory was of Darrell waking up in the hospital and leaving, turning down the recommended psychiatric evaluation, partly because he had neither the insurance nor the money to pay for it.

The boy had a touch that spread fear. Darrell did not seem to know anything else about him.

Ward released the man’s head, letting it thump back onto the warped hardwood floor.

“Watch him,” Ward told his men. He walked down the hall, pulling on a pair of green biohazard gloves, its molecules woven so tightly that even the smallest scrap of a virus couldn’t pass through.

He passed a bathroom and glanced without interest into the open door of the man’s room. Another bedroom door stood closed. Jenny’s room. Ward turned the handle.

The room was small, with a single bed, a record player and a box of records. Clothes were spilling out of the dresser drawers and scattered on the floor as if the girl still lived here. A bookshelf held some ragged paperbacks, mostly cheap horror novels and some poetry, as well as homemade attempts at pottery. A picture of Jenny’s long-dead mother on the wall. Faded posters featured old country singers like Loretta Lynn.

One poster showed The Cure, the sissy English band kept alive by generations of sissy teenagers. Ward snorted, taken back to his teenage years in East St. Louis. He and his buddies had once stomped a few frilly brats outside a Cure concert. Later in life, he’d joined the Army, which he saw as the best way to escape the dying city and do a few important things in the world.

From the start, Ward had been nothing like the average soldier. He’d seen most of the recruits around him as either idealistic do-gooders or clueless kids, born without Ward’s instinctive understanding of power, or his paranormal edge.

With a touch, Ward could see anyone’s past. His ability to extract information from anyone had landed him a job with military intelligence. Ward had always employed textbook interrogation tactics as a performance for his commanding officers, but they were just for show.

He’d also learned he could he advance his career quickly by gathering dirt on his superiors. A well-placed comment or two would make it clear that he knew the officer was embezzling, cheating on his wife, or had a vast collection of boy porn at home.

He’d gone through Officer Candidate School and quickly scaled the bureaucracy, even gathering secrets on American politicians who were deemed obstacles to national security. He’d taken over the top-secret ASTRIA—where he was able to operate with an unusual lack of oversight, as the agency was both classified and no longer of great interest to the Pentagon—out of a desire to find others like himself. It looked like that choice was starting to pay off.

Ward marched back up the hall.

“Pack it up,” he told his two men. “Everything in the girl’s room, every stick of furniture. I want it all for analysis.”

“You can’t take Jenny’s things,” Darrell protested weakly, from where the two men held him to the floor. “That’s all I got left of her.”

“So sad,” Ward replied. “Tie him up and stuff him out of the way.”

“Sir, we might need a van or a truck to move the furniture,” Buchanan said.

“Then call for one. And nobody goes in there without gloves and a mask. Place is probably crawling with toxins,” Ward told him.

Ward stepped outside while Avery tied up the man, who was so badly beaten he could barely protest as Avery shoved him into the coat closet.

Buchanan joined Ward on the front porch.

“There’s a fourth one,” Ward told him.

“A fourth paranormal, sir?”

“Might be the most dangerous of all. His touch spreads fear.”

“Do we have a name, sir?”

“Just a face. I’d need a sketch artist to render it. We have a lot to do, Buchanan, but it’s all turning into dead ends down here. We need to talk to the Barretts. Let’s pray God sees fit to let Senator Mayfield die. Until then, we’d better get back to Virginia and crunch what we’ve learned here, get our data miners working. Determine our next step. Now, call someone for me.”

“Yes, sir.” Buchanan made a call.

Later, a team arrived with a small truck and full-body hazardous material suits. They picked Jenny’s room clean, taking everything from her bed to the small picture of Jenny and Seth Barrett tucked into the corner of her mirror. Ward wanted to see what a biochemical analysis might reveal, and to find whether Jenny had left him any clues to her next destination.

When Jenny’s room lay bare, and all the other men had left the house, Ward opened the coat closet door. Darrell Morton, though bound, gagged, bruised, and bloodied, gave him a defiant look.

Ward cut away the rope from his hands and mouth.

“Mr. Morton,” he said, “There is no reason you should tell anyone about our visit today. If you do, you will be punished. We’ll be watching and listening from now until the end of your life, which could be very soon, or could be many years from now. Think about that.”

Ward stood and walked out the door.