Chapter 3 : The Call for Help
Trucker's Tavern sat at the crossroads of two forgotten highways, an old building that had seen better decades. The neon Budweiser sign in the window flickered intermittently, casting red shadows across the gravel parking lot.
Sheriff Nate Craven pulled up next to Sheriff Martin's patrol car, noting the tension in his colleague's posture as the Rakehell lawman waited by his vehicle.
"I really appreciate you calling this in, Martin," Nate said, shaking the other man's hand.
"I wouldn't have, except for what you told me about those disappearances. This Joe Allen character... there's something off about him man. Real off."
They walked toward the tavern together, their boots crunching on the loose gravel. Through the windows, Nate could see the usual collection of working men unwinding after their shifts—loggers, mill workers, truckers passing through. The scene looked normal enough, but Martin's evident unease put him on edge.
"What exactly did the witness say?"
"Travis Milliken, he works over at Conwood with our missing man, Abel Dougherty. He says Joe Allen is actually Eddie Sykes and been missing nine months. He claims they were supposed to go fishing together, but Sykes never showed."
Inside the tavern, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of beer and fried food. A small crowd had gathered around the bar's television, cheering at some sporting event. In the back corner, two men sat at a small table, their conversation growing increasingly heated.
Nate recognized one of them immediately from Martin's description—Travis Milliken, a burly man in his forties with calloused hands and worried eyes. The other man was thinner, paler, with an oddly vacant expression that made Nate's instincts prickle.
"...supposed to go angling for steelhead two months ago. You never showed," Milliken was saying, his voice rising with frustration.
The pale man—presumably Joe Allen—smiled with what seemed like genuine confusion. "Steelhead? I would've showed."
"But you didn't."
"Who is it you think I am again?"
Nate moved closer, keeping to the shadows near the bar. There was something wrong with Allen's voice, a strange quality that was hard to define. It was as if he were speaking from the bottom of a well, or through some kind of filter.
"I thought we was friends," Milliken continued, his confusion evident.
"Yeah, course we are."
"Where did you go, Eddie? You just up—"
"Like I said man, I'm Joe Allen. You're confused."
Nate caught Martin's eye and nodded toward the back exit. Whatever was about to happen, they needed to be ready to move quickly. Allen's behavior was definitely suspicious, but more than that, there was something wrong in his tone, like a spider waiting in its web.
"Why are you doing this?" Milliken asked, genuine hurt in his voice.
Allen leaned forward, and when he spoke, his voice took on a different quality—softer, more intimate, but somehow more threatening. "I'll tell you, but not here. Somewhere quiet. We don't want these yokels hearing, do we?"
The change in Allen's demeanor was subtle but unmistakable. The confused act had dropped away, replaced by something dangerous. Nate's hand moved instinctively to his service weapon.
"It's a secret," Allen continued, his pale eyes never leaving Milliken's face. "And we're friends, aren't we? Good friends. I mean, you said so, didn't you?"
There was something hypnotic about Allen's voice now, something that made Milliken's resistance seem to crumble visibly. The bigger man's eyes glazed over slightly, as if he were falling asleep on his feet.
"Maybe we could be best friends," Allen whispered.
Nate had seen enough. Whatever bullshit game Allen was playing with Milliken, it ended now. He stepped forward, his badge visible over his uniform and Martin flanking him from the other side.
"Travis?" Allen's voice took on an urgent tone. "Knock your beer onto the floor. Be sloppy. Then call me your friend and ask me to drive you home."
The compulsion in his voice was unmistakable now, and Milliken's hand began to move toward his beer glass as if of its own accord. But the spell broke when Nate's shadow fell across their table.
"Evening, gentlemen. I'm Sheriff Craven from Bailey County. Mind if I ask you a few questions?"
Allen's head snapped up, and for just a moment, Nate saw something in those pale eyes that made his blood run cold.
Then the moment passed, and Allen was just a confused-looking man blinking up at two law enforcement officers.
"Questions about what, Sheriff?"
"About Eddie Sykes and about Abel Dougherty. About what you've been doing for these past nine months."
Allen stood slowly, his movements oddly fluid. "I think there's been some mistake. I'm Joe Allen. I work at the Braddock Forks Mine. This gentleman here seems to have me confused with someone else."
Milliken was shaking his head as if waking from a dream. "Eddie? Eddie, what the hell is wrong with you? Why won't you just—"
"Sir, I need you to step back," Nate said firmly, positioning himself between Milliken and Allen. Every instinct he'd developed in twenty years of law enforcement was screaming that Allen was dangerous, though he couldn't quite articulate why.
"You're making a mistake, Sheriff," Allen said, but he was already moving toward the back exit, his pale eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal looking for escape routes.
"I don't think so. Why don't you come with us, just answer a few questions down at the station?"
Allen's smile was cold. "I think I'll pass."
He moved with sudden, inhuman speed, knocking over chairs and shoving past startled patrons as he bolted for the exit. Nate was after him immediately, Martin close behind, but Allen had already burst through the back door and was running across the darkened parking lot.
"Stop! Police!" Nate shouted, drawing his weapon.
But Allen didn't stop. He vaulted over a fence with surprising agility and disappeared into the tree line beyond the tavern. By the time Nate and Martin reached the fence, he was gone, swallowed by the darkness of the forest.
"Son of a bitch," Martin panted. "How'd he move that fast?"
Nate holstered his weapon, his mind racing. Allen's speed and agility had been beyond normal, but more disturbing was the way he'd tried to control Milliken with his voice. And those eyes...
"Radio dispatch," he told Martin. "I want every available unit converging on the Braddock Forks Mine. If that's really where he works, that's where he'll go to ground."
As they ran back to their patrol cars, Nate's radio crackled to life. "Sheriff, this is Davis. We got reports of some kind of disturbance at the Braddock Forks Mine. Sounds like there's some kind of commotion in the shaft."
Nate's blood turned to ice.
"All units, converge on Braddock Forks immediately. Suspect is extremely dangerous. Do not approach alone."
The drive to the mine took twelve minutes that felt like hours. Nate's headlights lightened up the darkness as he raced along the mountain roads, his mind spinning with possibilities. What was Allen doing at the mine? Was he going after more victims? Or was there something there he needed, something connected to the nine-month killing spree that had terrorized the county?
The mine's security lights were visible from a mile away, but as they got closer, Nate could see something was wrong. Workers were streaming out of the main building, their faces pale with panic. Foreman Pete Williams was directing the evacuation, his radio crackling with urgent communications.
"Williams!" Nate called out as he skidded to a stop. "What's the situation?"
"Joe Allen went crazy, Sheriff. He started acting real strange down in the shaft, then grabbed some kind of device and headed deeper into the mine. My boys are scared as hell—they're saying he had some kind of... thing with him."
"Thing?"
"I don't know how else to describe it. Its about the size of a basketball, glowing green. It stunk as hell."
Nate felt the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place. The sphere from Allen's boarding house room, the one the landlady had complained about. He'd brought it here, to the mine. But why?
"Seal the exits," he ordered his deputies. "Nobody goes in, nobody comes out."
From deep within the mine came the sound of shouting, then screaming. The voices echoed up through the shaft distorted and unclear. Then came an explosion that shook the ground beneath their feet and sent a pillar of dust and debris shooting up from the mine entrance.
The screaming stopped.
"Jesus Christ," Williams whispered. "There's ten men down there."
Nate stared at the smoking mine entrance, a sick feeling settling in his stomach. Whatever Joe Allen really was, whatever had been driving the disappearances and murders, it had just taken ten more lives in a final, desperate act.