N
early three hours later, Gannon's jet landed in Texas.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Houston. On behalf of Captain⦔
The attendant listed connection information as the plane taxied to the gate. When it stopped, seat belts clicked, passengers rose, collected their belongings and began disembarking.
Coming through the jet bridge to the terminal, Gannon's attention went to the bank of overhead television monitors tuned to CNN, Fox and a CBS affiliate.
His jaw dropped.
They showed the dramatic red bars advising, “LIVE: BREAKING NEWS: LUFKIN, TEXAS,” with aerial images of a heavily treed property, dotted with run down outbuildings, eviscerated cars, trucks and trailers.
The news crawlers at the bottom of the screens flowed with: “The World Press Alliance citing unconfirmed sources reports the FBI, along with Texas state and local authorities, have converged on the property of a truck driver suspected in the cross-country murders of three women. Ritualistic slayings in New York, Kansas and California are linked. FBI launches manhunt for fugitive New York detective implicated in the case⦔
This was his story and he'd lost it.
He was too late.
It was over.
Hang on.
He sat down, eyes fixed to the TVs, and took a few deep breaths.
Think.
Just keep going. Keep going.
He started walking fast to the rental desk, going over his plan as if it were a prayer. Get the car. Get to Lufkin. Hook up with the WPA. Maybe something can be salvaged. His computer bag bumped against him, reminding him he still had exclusive material on the Styebecks from Canada.
The car-rental company was quick.
On the shuttle to his car, Gannon checked his phone and laptop for messages.
None.
It was hot and humid as he headed to the car. Once he was behind the wheel of his Ford Focus, he cranked on the air conditioner, adjusted the mirrors and seat. Then he entered the Lufkin data into the car's GPS navigation system, grateful the airport was on the north side of the sprawling metropolis.
As a precaution, he studied his folding map. He was north of The Loop and Beltway 8 and needed 59. Lufkin was a two-hour drive. He rolled from the airport and in minutes was working his way north on one of the country's busiest freeways.
He turned on the radio for any news on Lufkin but nothing new came up. As he neared Livingston, his phone rang. He pulled over near an on-ramp, stopped on the shoulder and took the call.
“Gannon.”
“Jack Gannon, from Buffalo?”
“Yes, who've I got?”
“Wes Coleman, World Press Alliance, Houston. New York told me to call. Where are you?”
“On 59, on my way to Lufkin. What's happening?”
“I'm in Lufkin at the property with a photographer. We've been here for hours. Police are tight-lipped. They set up, went in and are still searching the property. But we're getting the feeling that this is a huge goose egg. At least there's nothing here in Lufkin.”
Gannon could hear impatience in Coleman's voice.
“Jack, do you have any other information to pass to us?”
“I've got exclusive background. Can we talk when I get there?”
“Nothing to pass to us now that we could get started on?”
Gannon hesitated, watching traffic stream by.
“Anything at all that we can act on, Jack?”
He'd worked too hard, sacrificed too much to give up everything.
“No,” he said. “Nothing.”
“Well, when you get to Lufkin, just ask at the perimeter to be directed to the command post. We'll hook up with you there.”
After the call, Gannon entered new coordinates into the GPS.
He'd take a detour.
On his way to Lufkin, he would first visit the old Styebeck place near Huntsville, see if he could learn more from anyone who could remember the family. But his GPS beeped a refusal to accept Dead Tree Road, the address he'd taken from the old Texas property records.
GPS didn't recognize it.
The system would get him seven miles north of Huntsville to Pine Mill. All right, he'd go there then proceed the old-fashioned way by asking for directions.
At Livingston, he took 190 West, cutting through dense sections of East Texas forest for nearly an hour before he came to the outskirts northeast of Huntsville and Pine Mill.
Other than an old church, a boarded-up depression-era school and a few buildings scattered on either side of the empty road, there was no sign of life until he saw the TS Convenience Store & Gas Station.
Gannon stopped there.
The temperature was in the high nineties when he stepped from the rental. The porch creaked as he entered the store. Transom bells rang; the dog resting on the floor made the effort to lift its eyebrows. The old woman in a rocking chair behind the counter smiled with as much energy as the dog. The store's big windows were open. Wooden venetian blinds, with some slats missing, kept out most of the sun while letting in the weak breezes. Gannon got a bottle of Coke from the cooler, used the opener tied to the string to pry off the cap.
“How much?”
“That'll be one dollar, young fella. Where y'all from?”
“Buffalo, New York.”
Gannon paid and took a long drink. The dog yawned, then yipped and the woman hushed it.
“A long way to come to buy a Coke.”
“It is.” He touched the sweating bottle to his forehead. “Could you help me out with some directions?”
“If it's within my means.”
“I'm looking for the old Styebeck place on Dead Tree Road.”
“Well you won't find Dead Tree Road on any map. Farm Road 299 is what you want. Keep going west another mile to the creek. Don't cross it. Turn right, and at the creek, that's Stevens Lane. Take it a mile, you'll see 299,
go right again. It's the first place on your right. Almost like you was going in a box.”
“Thanks.” Gannon set his drink down to take notes.
“What's your interest?”
“I'm a reporter.”
“A reporter?”
“I'm doing some historical research on the property and the Styebecks. Do you recall anything about them by chance?”
“I lived all my life around here, and as I remember it, the Styebecks were not much for mixing with people. Deke, the father, was a guard at The Walls, then lost his job some time after Kennedy was shot up in Dallas. The boys moved on. I think Karl went north and Orly moved to Nacogdoches, or Lufkin somewhere.”
“What about the mother?”
“Belva? I don't know, heard she went into a home.”
“And the property?”
“Got sold, but nobody did anything with it. A few years ago Orly started coming around here, to manage it, rent it or something, is what I heard. The Styebeck place has been for sale for ages. Nobody lives on it or goes there. Back in the 1800s they used to call it Vengeance Road.”
“Why's that?”
“Story was a coldhearted banker moved out there after foreclosing on the farmer who'd owned it. Then one night, the farmer came out and burned the place to the ground while the banker and his family slept.”
“Terrible.”
After noting the history, Gannon took stock of the store. He didn't see a TV or hear a radio. He needed to know if other reporters had been by.
“One last thing. If anyone else were headed to the old farm, they'd have to pass by you here, right?”
“They would if they were coming from Huntsville, but there's been nobody. Now, if they were coming from the other way, say, south from Dallas, Midway or Cobb Creek, or west from College Park way, then no, I wouldn't see them.”
“Thank you, you've been very helpful.”
Gannon raised his empty bottle to her and set it on the counter. The old woman nodded.
Outside on the porch, he checked his phone, finding the signal was surprisingly strong. Still no messages. He looked around. Eerily quiet on all fronts. As he got in the car he wondered if he was missing the big story in Lufkin.
A mile from the store, he turned off the paved road onto Stevens Lane and soon came to Farm Road 299. Otherwise known as Vengeance Road. He shook his head at the name.
No wonder it hadn't sold.
He proceeded down the desolate stretch of gravel road. It cut through a dense forest for nearly a mile before he came to a weather-beaten For Sale sign. The contact phone number had faded away. Nailed to a tree was a warning: NO TRESPASSING, hand scrawled in letters that bled down the grayed wooden board.
No fence or gate secured the property.
The entrance was less of a road and more of an overgrown grassy pathway, almost invisible. It appeared to be freshly flattened, as if a vehicle had recently passed over it.
He cursed.
Had other reporters come in the other way and beat him on this part of the story, too?
He saw nothing. After parking at the side, under a tree, he started walking down the property. Tall grass and undergrowth slapped at his jeans. Birdsong and breezes rode the air, cooled by the natural canopy of the trees arching above.
As the lane ahead curved, a section of building emerged in the distance and he saw a ramshackle house bereft of life. Beyond it, there was a barn nearly consumed by the dense growth of shrubs that fingered their way through the aged gaping walls.
The sun flashed.
A tractor-trailer was half concealed in a thicket, its door turned enough to show him Swift Sword Trucking.
His pulse quickened.
The trailer's narrow side door was open.
Reflexively, he crouched and stepped to the side of the truck in the brush, moving forward alongside the trailer. He heard and saw nothing as he crept forward to the trailer's side inspection door.
Take it easy.
He glanced inside at the darkness.
It reeked.
Holding his breath, he found a step and pulled himself inside.
After several moments, his eyes adjusted to the lack of light and he surveyed the foul mattresses, buckets of human waste, stinking food wrappers, used and balled duct tape.
Something brownish-red was smeared on the floors and walls.
Was that blood?
A scream startled him.
He thrust his back to the wall of the truck. It sounded like a woman calling for help. It came from the house.
No, the barn!
He eyed the buildings and property for any movement but saw nothing.
It was the barn.
Something was going on in that barn.
He had to get to it so he could see inside.
Carefully he jumped from the truck and crawled under it to the woods, then gauged the perimeter of the property and the thick forest that would give him enough cover to make it to the barn unseen.
He took a deep breath and ran into the forest as fast as he could around the trees, crashing through the branches. After several minutes, he arrived at the edge of the barn. Breathless. He leaned against it, chest heaving, face sweating, nose running as he tried to calm himself to steal a glance through the window.
Just as he turned, his front pocket began ringing.
He'd forgotten to switch off his cell phone!
Seizing it, clasping his hand around it to choke the noise that had shattered the quiet, he rushed into the woods to take the call.
“Jack, this is Adell. Are you in Texas?”
“Adell! Listen!”
“They found nothing in Lufâ”
“Adell, I know. Call the FBI now!”
“What?”
“I found him! I'm in Texas northeast of Huntsville. Write this down now! Northeast of Huntsville, Farm Road 299, the old Styebeck place.”
“Are you safe?”
“Listen to me! Send somebody nowâ”
Gannon's cell phone flew from his hand as the back of his head exploded, hurling him into darkness.
“Jack? Jack⦔
A snakeskin boot crushed Gannon's phone.
J
ack Gannon could not move.
As he came to, he could not see.
The base of his skull pulsated with pain. An unyielding pressure encased his wrists, forearms, head, chest, legs and ankles.
Where was he? The broiling air was stale, smotheringâ¦. What happened? Go backâ¦flying to Texasâ¦missing the story in Lufkinâ¦the old Styebeck placeâ¦the Swift Sword rigâ¦a screamâ¦
Gannon was restrained in a hard wooden high-backed chair.
His eyes flickered open to filmy, underwater vision. Spears of light penetrated the gaps of rickety walls.
He was in the barn where he'd heard the scream.
A large figure stood before him silhouetted against the dim light. Gannon's eyes adjusted first to snakeskin boots, jeans, a khaki western shirt that wrapped a muscular upper body and powerful arms.
Gannon's blood turned to ice.
This was Orly Styebeck. Karl's brother.
The air whipped and the back of a hand cracked across Gannon's jaw.
“I will ask you questions and you will answer with the truth.”
The man's voice was deep.
He held up Gannon's wallet.
“You're that reporter, from Buffalo?”
“Yes.”
The man spit.
“How did you find this place?”
“Researching the Styebeck family. Let me go. I'll leave. I'm sorry I trespassâ”
The hand cracked again. Harder. Fireworks shot through Gannon's head and he tasted salty blood.
“Who were you talking to on your phone?”
“My friend in Buffalo.”
“Who?”
“Her name's Adell. We're friends, that's all.”
He held up Gannon's keys.
“Where'd you park your rental?”
“Back on the road near the sign.”
Keys jingled. The man strode off, and now Gannon saw a woman staring at him less than ten feet away. Like him, she was bound to the same type of chair. Her face was gaunt, bruised.
Her eyes overflowed with terror.
He recognized her.
“Jolene Peller?”
She released a frail cry. “Yes.”
Gannon inventoried their surroundings: a loft, a rusted old vehicle, some livestock stalls, a workbench with rusted tools, a large tarpaulin draped over stored objects.
Then he noticed new electric cables running from Jolene's chair to a metal box with a lever switch. He saw additional wiring running to his chair, and wiring going to what looked like a new, industrial-size generator. It was big, with several large fuel cans next to it.
Realization dawned on him.
They were strapped into electric chairs. The kind used for executing convicts. Deke Styebeck had been on the execution team. It all fit. Gannon battled in vain against his restraints.
“He's going to kill us,” Jolene said.
At that point, Gannon saw the letters and read the words.
“It says GUILTY on your forehead,” he said.
She released a keening cry then caught herself.
“It's how he marks the people he's going to kill,” she said. “He marked you, too.”
“We've got to get out of here.”
Gannon's chair was older. Age had weakened the wood in some areas. He continued struggling, tried to lean forward, to stand. If he took steps to the wall, mashed the chair against it, he could fracture it or break it.
But the contraption was heavy.
He summoned all of his strength, but after several strained attempts he'd only succeeded in standing for an instant. The weight of the restraints and harness cut into him and forced him down. Besides, the chair was tethered by the cables.
It was hopeless.
The light diffused.
Orly Styebeck had returned and backhanded Gannon again.
“You and the whore have been judged!”
At that moment the air tensed with the hitch of a shotgun being pumped at a far doorway.
“It's over, Orly.”
A man moved slowly from the light toward them.
“Karl?”
Orly Styebeck began to smile then dragged the back of his hand across his mouth.
“Is it really you?”
“Let them go and let me talk to Belva.”
Orly stared long and hard at his brother, memories flooded back, but he damned them up.
“There's nothing you can say to her now, Karl. Nothing can make up for what you did to us.”
“You have to know what Deke was. What we are. We've got to put an end to this, to everything!”
“Shut up!”
“We're cursed, Orly.”
“You don't know what the hell you're sayin'! You left us. You ran and hid. And for what? To support whores like that one! To undo everything Deke ever done! Everything he fought his whole life for!”
“Let me talk to Belva. It all ends here. It's over.”
“No! We can carry on together, Karl. You put a stop to your whoremongering and we can carry on with Deke's righteous work! It would make Belva happy.”
“Let me talk to her.”
Orly swallowed. Any hint of his misguided hope vanished in the chill of a decision he'd made.
“Fine, Karl.” He walked to the tarpaulin and pulled it down. “Seein' you come all this way, you might as well talk to them both.”
Jolene screamed.
Two upright coffins faced them. Their lids had been removed and replaced with a clear plastic top. Human remains pressed against them.
“Belva died last year after she wrote to you. First Daddy, then you left us. Then her. I was alone. It hurt me so bad I checked myself into Ranger. But know what, Karl? Belva called to me. Visited me in my room, told me to come get her, to resurrect her from the cold ground. So I got her. Then I got Deke, too. Brought them both back
home here, where I come here to listen to them. They told me to get you to stop what you were doing and help me to carry on.”
“You need help, Orly.”
Karl turned to his brother, who had moved to the lever. He pressed a button and the big generator grumbled to life.
“Orly, no!”
“I HAVE SEEN THE GLORY!”
The shotgun blasted; buckshot ripped through Orly's shoulder before he could push the lever down to fully release the current. It tore through the switch box shredding the cables connecting the chairs to the generator, shutting it down. Sparks exploded throughout the tinder-dry barn, igniting scores of small fires, some near the chairs.
Jolene cried out.
Karl went to her chair as the fires spread.
Orly pulled himself bleeding from the floor and tried in vain to throw the damaged switch. It was futile, the connection was severed. The fires grew rapidly into larger ones, sucking oxygen from the barn as it filled with black choking smoke.
The temperature soared.
The unbearable heat was on the verge of blistering skin.
Coughing and gagging, Gannon tried to warn Karl Styebeck who was working to free Jolene, when Orly seized a shovel, raised it high then brought it down hard on Karl's head, sending him to the ground. Orly crawled, reaching for the gun, but collapsed.
Jolene screamed as the flames rose around them.
Gannon battled against his restraints until he lost consciousness.