Chapter 23
“What’s goin’ on?” Preacher asked no one in particular.
An older woman with a head full of curlers scowled around her cigarette. “I look like the fuckin’ news to you? Ain’t nobody tellin’ us nothin!”
The state park was a mob scene. Police cars and fire trucks blocked every entrance, forcing Preacher and the others to leave their bikes on the side of the road and head into the park on foot.
Crowds of rally-goers had amassed inside the picnic area, some spilling out onto the road. Park Rangers appeared to have herded them there and looked to be providing crowd control.
Everyone Preacher spoke to seemed largely confused—no two stories were the same. While one group was convinced a fight had broken out and someone had been injured, another group guessed there’d been a fire. A heavily intoxicated man stumbling about muttered something along the lines of aliens having come to Earth.
“Ain’t that Sylvie?” Knuckles squinted through the darkness, pointing at a picnic table full of people.
“Hey, Sylvie!” Preacher shouted, his hands cupped around his mouth.
A head full of dark hair snapped up. Swiping at her cheeks, Sylvia pushed herself off the picnic bench and shuffled quickly toward them. Preacher jogged ahead, meeting her before the rest of the group.
“Something’s wrong!” she cried, gripping his arms, her long red nails biting his skin. “We tried to get back to camp, but they got it all blocked off! Joey made me wait here, and he hasn’t come back!”
Prying her hands off him, Preacher squeezed them gently. “Breathe, Sylvie. I’m sure everything is fine.” He briefly scanned the crowded area. “Where’s my mom and dad? They here somewhere, too?”
Sylvia shook her head, her eyes wet with tears. “I don’t know! Everyone left me! I don’t know where anyone is!”
“Alright, alright, calm down, okay?” He squeezed her once more before releasing her. Anne took his place beside her and slipped her arm through Sylvia’s.
“I’ll find out what’s goin’ on, Sylvie. You just sit tight.” Preacher glanced around and found that the rest of the group had joined them. “Jim, you stay here with the girls. Knuckles, Smokey, you’re with me.”
He paused when he noticed that Debbie appeared nervous—her eyes were wide, and darting in every direction.
Taking hold of her chin, he lowered his head to hers. “You get asked any questions, give ‘em that fake-ass name of yours and say you’re with me—that you’re my girl.”
When she didn’t respond, he growled softly, “Don’t run off on me, Wheels. “Stay put, alright? I promise I’ll be right back.”
Debbie blew out a breath and nodded, and Preacher kissed her quickly on the mouth. Jogging back to the path with Knuckles and Smokey on his heels, he kept an eye out for a familiar face.
“Heads up,” Knuckles muttered. “Five-O at two o’clock.”
A small group of police officers blocked the path up ahead. They didn’t appear to be doing anything other than standing guard.
“The swimmin’ hole,” Preacher whispered, and headed left. “We’ll circle back around.”
They forged a wide path around the campground. Once they’d reached the creepily empty swimming hole, they entered the campground from behind. As they cut through the quiet campsites filled with tents and trailers but no people, a knot began to form in the pit of Preacher’s stomach.
“Stop it right there!” A flashlight temporarily blinded Preacher and stopped him dead in his tracks. Instinctively he put his hands up. The light lowered and he blinked rapidly. Tall and wiry with sharp pointed features, the fast approaching police officer was young, no older than Preacher.
“Our campsite’s over there, officer.” Smokey jerked his thumb left.
The officer shined his flashlight over Smokey and narrowed his eyes. “Which one is yours?”
Preacher stepped forward. “We got three sites. Brown pop-up trailer dead center. Bunch of tents lyin’ around and a couple picnic tables pushed together.”
The officer’s eyes widened only a fraction, but it was enough of a reaction that the knot in Preacher’s stomach painfully expanded. He took another step forward. “What happened?” he demanded. “What’s goin’ on?”
“You need to go back.” The officer gestured with his flashlight. “Go back to the park entrance and wait with everyone else. Someone will—”
Preacher took off running. Shouting erupted behind him, and he only increased his speed. The closer he came to his family’s campsite, the noisier everything became. There was a loud clanging off in the distance, and someone was shouting. He recognized the voice. It was his brother—Joe was the person shouting.
Rounding a corner, Preacher skidded to a stop. Police and firemen were everywhere, crawling all over his family’s campsite. Lights from a dozen or more heavy-duty flashlights lit up the roped-off area. Somewhere someone was crying—soft, feminine sobbing could be heard amid the angry shouting.
Preacher’s gaze swept through the campsite, halting when he found Joe. Bent over the rope, Joe was nose to nose with an older man wearing plain clothes. Behind him, both Tiny and Crazy-8 struggled to hold him back.
“I don’t give a flyin’ fuck about your fuckin’ protocol!” Joe shouted, his voice hoarse and strained.
Preacher blinked. Some several feet from the scene Max stood alone, his arms wrapped around his upper body, his gaze fixed on the ground.
“Who the hell are you?” an unfamiliar voice demanded. Preacher blinked again. Another officer with another flashlight in his face.
“You can’t be here!”
Preacher shook his head. “What happened…?” He trailed off as he caught sight of something in the shadows—the shape of a woman on her hands and knees, and another woman beside her, clinging to her. Two officers towered over them.
“Please let me touch him,” the crying woman begged, her sobs tinged with hysteria as she attempted to reach around the officer’s legs. “Please, please… I just need to touch him…”
June—it was June who was crying. And that was Louisa beside her, pleading with her, struggling to hold her back.
His heart pounding, Preacher’s stare shifted to the human-shaped lump lying prone in the distance. Breathing became difficult.
Sudden noise drew his wavering gaze to the trailer where several figures had emerged. A heavyset man in uniform was staggering down the steps, a hand clasped over his mouth. The door hung open behind him and lights could be seen flashing from within.
Flash. Flash. Flash. Preacher blinked with each flash.
His vision tunneled, then widened.
Was that—was that blood on the trailer door? Not blinking, no longer breathing, Preacher stared at the blood smeared across the door until it became difficult to see. The painful knot in his gut was all he could feel.
“You can’t be here,” a voice said, muffled, sounding far away.
“My parents,” Preacher attempted to say, not recognizing the sound of his own voice. His vision was blurring, his hearing fading—a quickly dying light bulb, Preacher was flickering before he blew out entirely.
A commotion broke out. Panicked shouts rang out across the camp as Preacher snapped to attention. He could see clearly, hear clearly, and think clearly once again.
“Don’t you touch my brother! Don’t you fuckin’ touch him, you fuckin’ pigs, don’t you fuckin’ touch him!” Behind the rope, Joe progressed from shouting to raging incoherently.
Guns were drawn, and all of them were pointed at Joe. “Back up!” an officer screamed. “Back up the fuck up, asshole! Back up right now!”
It was Max, Preacher realized belatedly as his gaze pinged between his brothers. Max had ducked beneath the rope and was running across the campsite toward the trailer.
Frozen in place, Preacher watched as six officers converged on his youngest brother and tackled him to the ground.
“Mom!” The gut-wrenching wail came from beneath the pile of bodies. “Mom!”
Feeling the pain in his little brother’s words so acutely, Preacher lurched forward. He’d only managed a few steps when his arm was grabbed, and he was wrenched backward.
“You can’t go in there!” a police officer shouted.
“Like hell,” Preacher growled and swung. There was an audible crack as his fist collided with the officer’s nose. The man staggered backwards, and Preacher took off running.