Reign of Evil

So they passed several drunken service members as they entered the priory. Had they turned left, they would have entered a large paneled room filled with leather furniture. Had they taken the broad staircase, they could have climbed to some well-appointed rooms. But instead, they turned right and entered a door marked: “Staff Only,” which opened on to a staircase that took them down into a basement in need of a face-lift.

“Most of the furniture is left over from World War II. With the exception of the installation of fiber optics and a fresh coat of paint, the basement hasn’t seen any improvement,” Ian said.

A tight hallway was lined floor-to-ceiling on one side with boxes. As they squeezed past, Walker felt a buzz building in his skin. He hoped it wouldn’t get worse. The last thing he needed was to fall down and do the kickin’ chicken in front of Section 9. They turned left through the first door and entered a large room with several beat-up couches, a table and chairs, and a small kitchenette. Trev tossed himself down on one of the couches while Jerry helped himself to something that looked like cold, limp French fries in the refrigerator. Ian grabbed a bottle of scotch and two glasses. He poured two fingers into each glass, then held one out for Walker.

Walker accepted it and sat at the table, feeling like he weighed a thousand pounds. He let his elbows support him as he took half of the golden drink, closing his eyes as the liquid left a fire trail down his throat and exploded in his empty stomach. He reminded himself that he couldn’t get sentimental. A weepy-eyed widower wouldn’t do anyone any good. He needed to keep his wits about him, especially if he was going to track down Jen’s killers.

He opened his eyes and finished the scotch. “So, what do we know about the Red Grove?” He gestured for more and Ian obliged.

Ian had called ahead when they were in the car. Even as Walker asked the question, a young Indian girl came into the room. She was beautiful, with black hair framing a narrow face. She wore jeans and an Indian blouse that fell to mid-thigh and tapered at her wrists. She could have been a model had it not been for the twin crutches she needed to propel her crooked legs. Hell, she could still be a model, just not on any runway Walker had ever heard of.

“I have a preliminary report,” she said, moving both smoothly and awkwardly at the same time. She smiled at Walker. “The Red Grove is an American 501.3c, meaning it’s been classified as a tax-exempt religious organization. Their recorded headquarters is Lake Arrowhead, California, and their employee identification number indicates the Red Grove is headed by Hubert Van Dyke, who also sits on the board of the Bohemian Grove, as well as a company called A Celestial Worry LLC.”

Ian poured Walker and himself another two fingers each. “What do we know about Mr. Van Dyke?”

“There are two records in California; both seem to be for the same person. Mr. Van Dyke was a movie star during the 1950s and 1960s. His IMDB credits include Ironsides, The Andy Griffith Show, Cannon, and Bonanza. Not a top-tier actor, but no slouch either. He has more than a hundred credits to his name.” She turned to Walker, balanced on one crutch, and shoved out a hand. “Hi, I’m Preeti Jones.” The smile was broad and genuine.

Walker gave her his hand. “I’m Jack Walker. You’re not any relation to—” He glanced at Trev Jones slouching on the couch and caught his smile. “It appears that you are.” He glanced from her to Trev and back, then shook his head.

Trev got up and gave Preeti a kiss on her cheek. He spent a moment touching her hair and staring into her almond-shaped eyes; then he gave Walker an apologetic look. “It’s strange how things are so similar. I understand your fiancée worked with your team.”

“It’s like a fucking Twilight Zone episode,” Walker said as he took a drink. Then he looked up sharply. “Sorry about that.”

Preeti shook her head. “No worries, Mr. Walker. I’m very sorry for your loss. We’re all torn up about it.” She pushed Trev away.

Walker looked at her and saw the truth of it. They knew it could have been them. It could have been anyone. The universe is random. Section 9 was much like SEAL Team 666 in that it was a small, close-knit unit that was really a family. Triple Six and Section 9 could have been cousins.

“How long have you two been together?”

“Two years, three months, and fourteen days,” she said.

“You say that like it’s an incarceration,” Trev said, making for the refrigerator.

Preeti grinned playfully. “Sometimes, dear boy, it feels like it.”

Trev chuffed but didn’t say anything. He opened the fridge and pulled free a pint. “Anyone else?”

Everyone shook their heads, but their eyes remained fixed on him. By the time he got to the couch and sat down, he said, “What? Is this a Benny Hill sketch? If it is, I want the girls with boobs ASAP.”

“And what would you do with them, Trev?” Preeti asked.