Madison Mosby and the Moonmilk Wars Page 8

  Madison left the twins to giggle at her, as she started trudging back to the camp. She was reasonably sure she was going the right way. The twins caught up to her and they were back in the camp in less than an hour.

  The rain had stopped by the time they got back. Once there, Madison found the closest thing that looked like it could support her weight and fell into it.

  “Fuck, I still got to walk back to the car,” she exclaimed as she put her head in her palms and pulled her cheeks downward.

  “Gladys can give you a ride back to the road, Madison,” said Lammy. He was clearing his shotgun and stuffing the shells into his coat pocket.

  “Gladys a horse?” asked Madison.

  “Not exactly,” said Buddy.

  Chapter 13

  Two hours after she snuck out of work, Shelby pulled up to the dilapidated metal gate that separated Camp Peterson from civilization. Her palms were sweaty against the steering wheel and she was certain that at any moment, swarms of state troopers would surround her car, guns drawn and screaming for her to exit her vehicle.

  Downed trees lined the road and on three occasions she’d had to put her Explorer into four-wheel drive, going off road to get around the ones that blocked her way. A guard shack lay on its side next to the gate, which had been forced open by a fallen elm tree. Further down the fence line, a pile of rough-cut stones the size of beach balls lay across the fence, as if dropped there by a huge dump truck.

  Shelby got out and changed into her boots, trying to figure out why someone would pile stones on top of a fence. Looters would just cut the fence, not dump stones on top of it. The afternoon air was muggy and still. All she could hear was a gentle tide through the trees and frogs croaking at one another. Grabbing her pistol, a crowbar and a flashlight, she started on foot into the base.

  Debris was everywhere, from trash, to roofing shingles and bricks. She passed buildings that looked like dormitories, mechanic sheds and warehouses. As she got deeper into the base, the smell of death mingled with the fishy smell of the water.

  Worried she wasn’t alone, Shelby wound her way through the smaller buildings that lined the main road. She could see and hear the thick plastic of body bags, rippling in the wind. More evidence of the police activity that mysteriously halted. They hadn’t even bothered to come back for the dead bodies.

  Something brushed up against her foot. Terror struck her in chest. She looked down and gasped. The shredded remains of a body lay before her. It was probably a man, clothed in tattered, waterlogged tactical gear. A submachine gun still slung around his neck. Something had eaten most of him, leaving bones covered in dried, ragged tissue. Mud caked around him, forming a mound.

  The ghastly sight gave her pause. The FBI agent in her wanted to stop and document the scene, but looking up and seeing similar piles of bones, strewn about the area, made her realize there was no point. It was if zombies were sleeping all around her.

  You’re not here to perform a forensic examination of the scene.

  She pressed on, stopping every few yards to listen for footsteps or vehicles. But there was nothing, just the wind and the water. Eventually, she came to the scattered remains of the base commander’s house. A burnt concrete slab, with thick support beams rising up from it, was the only clue that a large house had stood here. Shards of glass and jagged metal stuck out from the beams.

  There were no signs of a gas main explosion. The ground was still flat in all directions. If there had been an underground main explosion, as the news had reported, there would have been a hole in the ground, a crater large enough to swallow a car.

  Shelby walked around the foundation, scanning the terrain. Burn-scarred furniture lay everywhere. A refrigerator had been thrown clear of the structure and punched a hole in a nearby garage. A flat-screen TV dangled from a tree, its screen shattered from the branch that protruded from the middle. Chunks of computer equipment mingled with filthy, bloodstained clothing.

  “The blast came from here,” she said aloud, pointing to the burnt concrete slab. “What the hell did Trask have that was explosive, and more importantly, why did he have it?”

  Contemplating the sheer devastation and the possible cause, Shelby began to wander, looking for anything that would point her in the right direction. Meth labs were still a problem. But Maryland wasn’t exactly a hotbed of methamphetamine activity these days. Searching the nearby structures revealed noting of interest. Bomb making or meth production required certain chemicals. None of the surrounding buildings stored the basic components of either.

  The absence of hard evidence was starting to make Shelby think this was some freakish act of God. The sun was about to set over the bay and her concern for running onto someone faded into feeling like a fool, wasting her time on a few notes that could have been some fantastic coincidence.

  A glint of gold flashed at the edge of the water. Shelby crept over to it, going around a pair of mangled legs. She jumped down from the waist-high concrete breakwater wall and slogged through the mud to find a white purse with gold trim.

  So we’ve got blown-up mercenaries, and now designer bags?

  The purse’s strap had caught on an exposed piece of rebar. The wallet and other personal effects were gone. Probably blown halfway across the water. Shelby fished it out. Brown water poured from a small hole in the bottom. Inside, she found a small notepad and a business card. Most of the ink on the notepad had smeared beyond recognition, save for two words: “Mountain Spa.” The business card read, “Preen’s Floral Shop.”

  “Doubt you guys were planning a wedding.”

  The shop’s address was in Alexandria, close to where she lived. The single bar cell service would take too long to come back with a search query. So, she took a picture of it and the “Mountain Spa” on her phone and slid it into her pocket. The spa note was probably a personal note, regarding relaxation.

  Right as she was about to turn away, something glinted beneath the shallow water. It was a cell phone screen—gold to the criminal investigator. She tossed it into a Zip-loc bag. There wasn’t much that could be done with it here, but the forensics geeks might be able to find something useful on it. She had a few in her circle who would do favors for her without asking too many questions.

  With renewed confidence that this wasn’t all a waste of time and after a brisk walk through the rest of the base, she came across a huge brick building with several smokestacks rising up from the metal roof. It looked to Shelby like an old power plant. Two white vans sat parked next to the building. None of the other buildings she’d passed had vehicles parked next to them. These were late models, so it seemed that something important was in here.

  The door was locked, but Shelby’s crowbar made quick work of the handle and lock. She kicked it open and took out her flashlight. Rows of metal doors greeted her and she was immediately reminded of an old prison. Her blood ran cold.

  There was nothing in the huge space save for the doors. She tried to open each one, but they were all locked. Finally, she noticed metal slats in each door. With a shaky hand, she slid one of the slats open and shined her light into it.

  Shelby screamed and dropped her flashlight and crowbar. They landed with a jarring “clang.” Her hands covered her mouth as tightly as they could, as if by stifling her own scream she could erase what she’d just seen. Inside the cell was a pile of ash, resembling a human, crouched in the corner. Its mouth open in an agonizing scream.

  Tears welled in her eyes. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. The line repeated in her head like a drumbeat. Wiping her eyes and sniffing, Shelby pulled herself together and picked up the flashlight and crowbar.

  She wanted to run out of there. She wanted to jump in her car and drive home to hug her family. What the hell had she gotten into here? This was a death camp. Whoever these people were, they were clearly murderers and she was here, alone.

  Pull yourself together, Shelby. You have to do this for Madison and Dana.

  Fighting against all common se
nse, but knowing what must be done, Shelby checked several of the other cells. The shock had worn off a bit, and each successive ash corpse had less of an effect.

  Seeing the true nature of Colonel Nathan Trask, Shelby hooked her crowbar into her belt and yanked out her pistol. Anyone she might run into could have been a part of all of this. She didn’t want to find anything else in here, like a torture room. Evil like this had to be stopped.

  She went back to her car and made for home. She needed a drink to dull the memory of those ash bodies.

  Chapter 14

  Madison wished she knew if Gladys the bear was content letting her ride on her back. The huge black bear didn’t seem to have an issue with the makeshift leather and canvas saddle. A bit ran from her mouth and attached to straps Madison used more for holding on for dear life, than to steer Gladys. The bear seemed to know where she was going anyway—at least Madison hoped she knew.

  The animal’s power was awesome. Madison could feel the huge muscles of the beast through the thin saddle. In a way it made her feel powerful too. For the moment, she was living in a fairy tale, riding a magical beast. Who was going to fuck with her? No one. She wished there was some way she could get Gladys to come home with her and roam the mansion grounds.

  Buddy and Lammy had blown something that looked like a dog whistle, and Gladys had come trudging out of the woods and lay down in front of everyone. Lammy explained that each bear had their own whistle that called them. Sammy got the saddle around Gladys’ big belly while speaking softly into her ear. The big hairy girl responded with deep sighs, as if to say “uh-huh.”

  Madison thanked everyone for the help and let them know she expected to be back in a few weeks, once she was done taking care of some business. She hinted that it sure would be easier to come visit more often if she had an easier way to get up the mountain. Sammy and Lammy caught on and handed over Gladys’ whistle. This way Madison could just walk a few hundred yards into the woods from the main road and summon a bear taxi.

  As she descended toward the visitor center, Madison continued to marvel at the Shiloh Library. It occurred to her that it could take a lifetime to sort all of it out. She wanted more than ever to talk to Langston or even Carl the armorer about everything. But decided she wouldn’t, because Nancy had clearly kept the place hidden from both of them. There was still the off-chance that Han, the groundkeeper, could be of some assistance. She would talk to him, once she got settled in at the mansion tonight.

  If Nancy Mosby had used bear power to get everything up to the Shiloh Library, that seemed plausible to Madison. But that still seemed too low-brow for her grandmother. She had the feeling that some sort of teleportation spell, like the one Langston used, was how everything got up there.

  A few hours went by as Madison and Gladys made their way down steep cliffs, across creeks and around fallen trees. Madison hadn’t been able to enjoy the beauty of the forest on her way up, focusing instead on suppressing the pain in her legs and making sure she didn’t tumble down the side of a cliff. But now she was reminded of all the times she and her father and sisters spent outside, camping, when she was a little girl. Sometimes she missed those outings, with everyone sort of behaving themselves and Dad staying moderately sober.

  We should all come back out here one day.

  Gladys came to the edge of a clearing and stopped. In the distance, Madison could hear a car driving along the main road.

  “End of the line, huh?” she asked Gladys.

  Gladys responded by shifting her weight on her feet and grunting.

  Madison slid down from the saddle and scratched Gladys behind the ear, assuming this was something bears liked.

  “Thanks, girl.”

  Gladys turned around and Madison set off toward the edge of the road. Once there, she could see the visitor center where she’d parked. Hopefully the park rangers hadn’t towed her car for parking overnight.

  She jogged across the deserted road, down a small embankment to the pavement. Her car was right where she’d left it. The black Audi S8, a rocket ship in the shape of a large sedan, had a little note on the windshield warning her not to leave it there for a second night. At least there were some kind folks left in the world.

  While searching for her keys, Madison came across her cell phone. She hadn’t given the thing a second through after she’d lost her signal, halfway up the mountain. The battery was dead, probably from grasping for a cell signal for a day.

  Fucking figures.

  She plugged her phone into the charger and got her thoughts together. She needed to get in touch with Sarah on the ride home. Tonight the two of them needed to run the Moonmilk base compound through the storm brewer. Then tomorrow, Sarah would be back in the kitchen cooking up product and Madison would be off dealing with couriers. She needed to make up for this little trip.

  Her phone came to life as if hit with chest paddles, beeping and vibrating nonstop for what felt like ten minutes as a cascade of messages filled the screen. She started the car and started zipping through the messages.

  Her lawyers had finished setting up the offshore accounts. She would have to go visit them later on this week. It turns out that making a shit ton of money was an absolute pain in the ass if you wanted to keep it all. The lawyers, nicknamed “the Outfit,” had been Langston’s last useful piece of advice. They were old guard from the days when Nancy Mosby ruled the magical world and were elated to see that they’d be able to resurrect their fee schedule for her granddaughter, Madison. The old crocodiles were expensive, but they seemed to know what they were doing, so Madison just signed a mountain of paperwork and let them do their thing.

  Helen Cross—Mom—was worried sick about her, wanting to know if she was going to be able to come to her birthday party. Helen wasn’t worried about Madison’s well-being, per say, just wanting to make sure that Madison’s face was there to watch her mother blow out sixty birthday candles, three months from now, after she got back from visiting her friends in Switzerland.

  I’d rather watch a hobo’s vasectomy. She’d be there, but she wouldn’t be happy about it.

  And the list of texts and e-mails went on and on. Before she pulled out, she noticed one from a number she didn’t have in her contacts.

  Unknown Sender: Madison. This is Frank Gardner.

  She stopped reading. She’d heard that name before. He was from Blue Petal International. Someone important.

  Unknown Sender: We cannot locate your father. He isn’t answering any of our calls or emails.

  Dad, doesn’t do the e-mail or the cell phone, Frank. Get up off your ass and go see him, like the rest of us have to do.

  Unknown Sender: It is imperative we find him in the next three days, for some important matters with the board. If you talk to him, please let him know I need to speak with him and it is urgent.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah.

  Madison had some idea where her dad was, but she wasn’t about to share that with a Blue Petal suit. She’d make a half-assed attempt to find him tomorrow. She was positive he was just off in the woods somewhere, half-drunk, trying to aim a rifle at a forest creature.

  Dana: Who’s Wrench?

  None of your beeswax. Jesus, you need to get a life and stop worrying about mine.

  Madison: A guy I met at the car dealership.

  Dana: He’s really tall.

  Madison: I know. Is this going anywhere? I need to get on the road.

  Wait. How would you know that? Unless...

  Dana: He left you a present at the bakery.

  Shit. Please tell me you didn’t say anything about where I am.

  Madison: Did he ask where I was?

  Dana: No.

  Madison decided that was a good sign. Wrench wasn’t nosy, unlike a certain sister. Explaining anything to Wrench right now was not part of her relationship success plan. She’d have to tell him eventually, but like five years from now, after he was totally in love with her. She would look up into his smoky, green eyes, tussle his mop of
chestnut hair and tell him she was a millionaire, gangster, drug dealer to the world’s most powerful sorcerers.

  But, you can just call me the Rose Widow, babe.

  By then, who knows, maybe she’d marry him and get some of that trust fund money. Although, she planned to be worth tens, if not hundreds, of millions of dollars by then. Two million would just be play money.

  Tossing her phone on the seat to continue charging, Madison took off for home and the night’s meeting with her crew. Her sixth sense told her that bad news was coming.

  Chapter 15

  Interview with Nancy Mosby of Blue Petal Foods International

  Source: 60 Minutes

  Recorded: December 1989

  Steve Kroft: You’ve created something quite amazing in Blue Petal. You were the first American restaurant in Soviet Russia. Most people think it was McDonalds, but you were first, with Pizza Americano in St. Petersburg. You’ve catered to events for Presidents and dictators, alike. Your brand is probably in every school, home kitchen, airplane, and hotel across the country and yet, very few people even realize that. What are you most proud of?

  Nancy Mosby: (pause) The quality of our product. Blue Petal is so good you don’t know what it is. You taste something bad and you say “what is this? I never want it again.” If it’s good, if it’s what you expect, you eat it and move on. You’re happy you ate it.

  Steve Kroft: You want to be so good, you’re forgotten? (laughs)

  Nancy Mosby: Invisible is more like it.

  ***

  Club music poured from speakers so loud, Madison wondered if it would shatter her teeth. She and her entourage followed the hostess back to the private table area of Sage, the reigning champ of nightclubs in DC.

  Sarah, Jane Dalton, Dana and two Moonmilk couriers, Joey Rondell and Veronica Ross, followed. They were the only couriers Madison felt close to as of late, the ones that quietly got the job done, and returned promptly with a case full of money. But even they complained a little too much. Joey was a big, bald man in his fifties, who loved yachts, real estate and sports cars, a man-child who reveled in taking risks as much as he loved filthy jokes that weren’t very funny. He wore a black silk shirt embroidered with black peacocks and blue-blocker sunglasses.