The Vanishing Gary Brown (booksvooks TXT) 📖

long enough to alert Fallon to his attempt to escape. His leg buckled beneath him. He grabbed the brass door handle for support. The temporary compress of torn linen which he had wrapped around his leg was now wet to the touch. It slipped as he walked and grated against the wound. Suddenly, the task ahead took on a greater, more troublesome perspective. He wouldn’t get far in his present state. The quick building to building sprint that had been his plan was rapidly diminishing with each passing second. With his range of mobility now reduced to a mere hobble, Virgil forced himself to come to terms with the reality of his situation.

He was trapped.

36

AS FALLON WALKED away from Communion Hall, the back door to Prophets residence creaked open. Prophet stepped outside.

“I heard you calling out,” Prophet said. “What’s wrong?”

“We have an intruder on the grounds,” Fallon replied. He removed the bloodstained plastic strip from the pocket of his jeans and examined it in the pale-yellow light of the lantern. “I found this under the woodpile at the back of Communion Hall.” He smoothed the darkened ooze between his fingers. “That’s blood. Fresh blood. Someone has infiltrated the compound.”

Prophet took the strip from Fallon, turned it over, examined the metal crimp in the moonlight, tested the tacky surface of the plastic.

“How do you know it’s not animal blood?” Prophet said. “A fox, perhaps. Could have gotten tangled up in it, chewed its way free. Foxes are always roaming around here at night. The mountain is thick with them.”

“It’s not a fox, Joseph. It’s probably another damn reporter. Those leeches never know when to leave well enough alone. And I bet I know why they’re here.”

Prophet replied coolly. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me whether or not I want to hear it.”

“You know as well as I do,” Fallon said. “The picture in the paper. Someone recognized Amanda. They’ve come looking for her, for proof. If they find her it’s all over.” Fallon paused. “If it’s a reporter, we may have an even bigger problem to deal with.”

“What do you mean?”

“We don’t know if our conversation was overheard. If it was, we can’t take any chances. They’d know for certain she’s here.”

“Shit,” Prophet cursed. He looked around, searched the shadows of the adjoining buildings for signs of movement, saw none. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s assume for the moment you’re right, even though I don’t believe you are. Where do you think he could be?”

“Anywhere,” Fallon replied. “That’s the problem. There’s too much area for me to cover on my own. We need to work the grounds together. You take the east side. I’ll take the west. We’ll meet up full circle. But for now, wait here.” Fallon turned and walked away. He was headed toward Communion Hall.

“Where are you going?” Prophet asked.

“The workroom,” Fallon answered without looking back. “I’m going to get the rifles.”

37

VIRGIL UNWRAPPED THE makeshift dressing, examined the wound, traced his finger around the outside of the gash. The bleeding had stopped for the moment. If he could make it across the room in the darkness to the stack of fabric bolts, he could tear off another strip, re-dress the wound, make the compress even tighter, restrict the blood flow. His eyes were now accustomed to the darkness. The pale moonlight filtering through the windows provided shadowy dimension to the objects which cluttered the room. Cautiously, he navigated his way between the wooden furnishings, his attention focused on the wall containing the many shelved fabric bolts. Once he had re-dressed the wound, he would regain his mobility, or at least a better portion of it. He might even manage a crippled sprint and be back to the security of his room in a matter of minutes. Once there, he would clean up the wound, change his clothes, and join the others in Communion Hall. Muffled voices came from outside the storeroom as the others made their way to the dining area. The acoustics of the room spirited them off the walls and ceiling, made them unrecognizable. Still, Virgil found himself strangely grateful for their company. When he reached the middle of the room, he suddenly froze in mid-step. Waves of familiar lamplight rose and fell against the bank of windows and chased the shadows that had become his allies back into their corners. Fallon was returning! Perhaps he had been seen after all. Or maybe Fallon had smelled fear in the air and was tracking him now, like a wolf tracking its prey. As dust-rich beams of lamplight infused the storeroom, Virgil scurried around the obstacles in his path and slipped into a narrow space between the storehouse wall and the rack. Several fabric bolts stood against the wall beside him, too tall to place lengthwise into the rack. Virgil slipped in behind the loose bolts and pressed his back to the wall. As lamplight charged in from outside, he peered out from behind his hiding place and examined the sawdust-covered floor. Footprints, his footprints, traced a distinct path around the tables and chairs to where he stood. Thankfully, no blood had dripped from his leg to the floor, at least none that he could see from his limited perspective. Not that it would have mattered. Up to this point, he had been lucky. Now he had the distinct feeling that his luck was about to run out. Twenty feet separated him from the door. He watched it swing open, then turned his body against the fabric rack, attempting to slip even further behind it. Fallon stood in the doorway. He surveyed the room with a careful eye, swept it with the light of the lantern, then looked in his direction. As Fallon entered the room, Virgil felt his stomach drop. He stood statue still behind the fabric bolts and calculated his options should he be discovered. If Fallon got within several feet, he could charge him before being recognized, take him by surprise, knock him