Page 5 of The Phantom's Vice

It’s far more than I can say for myself.

My phone beeps, drawing my attention from the angry little fuzz. I pull it out, grinning from ear toear when I see my plan is working.Looks like darling Brett is on the move.

The tracker I placed on her vehicle indicates she is moving fast down the highway toward the lower West side of Moriton. A smile tugs at my lips as I shove the phone back in my pocket, knowing exactly where she’s heading.

I guess I should pay Martha a visit, as well.

CHAPTER FOUR

BRETT

Jane Evangeline: Entry #2

Masks. Phantoms, Reapers, and Disposers.

The words have been running through my mind all week, though I’m no closer to infiltrating the mysterious crime syndicate operating out of Moriton.

Maverick told me all he could about it, and I have no reason to doubt him.

What he said so far seems to check out—the Sanctum is basically Atlantis. No one wants to talk about it, and the ones who do insist it’s some kind of conspiracy.

But I know it’s real—and I’m getting close.

Jim pullsinto the driveway of Martha Gore's residence. At first glance, it looks abandoned, but thetufts of smoke billowing from the crumbling brick chimney tell me someone still calls this place home. Jim gives a disgruntled huff as he takes in the state of the front lawn. Piles of garbage and spare parts litter the barren landscape, and off to the left, a semicircle of lawn chairs is arranged around what seems to be an altar of trash. The strangest part, though, is the demented garden gnomes scattered across the lawn and front porch. Their eyes and mouths are crossed out with black Sharpie, changing their merry faces into something out of a nightmare.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Jim murmurs, letting loose a shudder as he takes in the gnome perched in the grass right beside his door. “Let’s make this quick, yeah?”

I nod, pulling on the door as a shudder of my own runs through me. There’s something in theairof this place. Like something’s just not quite right, but I can’t put my finger on it.

I decide I don’t want to figure it out. “I’m with you. We’ll get what we need and then get the hell out.”

Jim nods, testing the first step of the porch and cringing at the awful creaking coming from the termite-infested wood. “Fuck it,” he murmurs,bypassing all three stairs with his massive stride. “Come on, Brett. I’ll help you up.”

I shake my head at his outstretched palm. “I weigh less than you. I’ll be fine.”

“Suit yourself.” Jim shrugs, looking a tad disappointed as he turns and knocks hard on the front door. “FBI! Open up!”

I hurry onto the landing next to Jim as a shuffling noise sounds behind the thin door. Several scrapes and clicks sound before the door is thrown open, revealing the house's owner. I have to stifle a gasp as I take in the gaunt features of a woman who’s supposed to be in her early fifties. Her skin appears to be melting off her very bones, made worse by the many sores arranged across her neck and face like a horrifying constellation of sickness.

“What do you want?” the raspy smoker's voice snarls in our direction. “Don’t you know what time it is? Some people are trying to sleep.”

It’s well past noon, but I’m certainly not going to argue with the woman. “Are you Martha Gore?” I ask, trying to keep my voice pleasant.

The woman looks suspiciously from mine to Jim’s face, then over his shoulder at the house across the street. “I told that motherfucker to leave my babies alone. You guys don’t have anything better todo than to harass an old woman?” Spit flies from her mouth the more enraged she becomes, and I have to force myself not to take a step back.

“I’m sorry… babies?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.

Martha throws her arms to the side, causing her braless chest to swing wildly from side to side. “Yes! My gnomies! That bastard Rick has been trying to get rid of them for the past year. WELL, IT’S NOT GOING TO HAPPEN, RICK!” she yells across the street.

Jim takes a step closer, holding his hands up in a protective stance. “Ms. Gore, we’re not here about your gnom—babies,” Jim says, quickly switching his wording at the murderous glare Martha cuts him. “We’re here about your son. Your biological, human son,” he adds, shifting his eyes toward the gnome perched on the porch rail.

At the word son, Martha’s face goes white. “Son? I don’t have a son.” She closes the door, and I stick my boot out, stopping it before she has a chance to lock us out.

“Ms. Gore, we have your hospital records. We know you gave birth to a boy at Moriton Memorial thirty-six years ago. Please, we need your help.”

At my mention of it, the woman’s gaze softensand seems to clear for a moment. In the next, the shutters come back down, and her scowl is right back in place. “Like I said, I don’t have a son. Never have, never will.”

“Ms. Gore.” Jim places his hand on the door and pulls it open with ease. “I’m afraid if you don’t comply, we’ll have to take you to the station.”

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