At the clinic, Doctor Richard Lewis tried his best not to laugh out loud and took a look at the wound. When he asked if they knew what he’d cut himself on, Kathy immediately explained about the bag and with the help of one of the interns, hauled the soggy mass into the clinic.
Rick took one whiff of the waterlogged black lump and set it aside, He cleansed the wound on Jack Wallace’s derriere and applied a thick layer of gauze, telling the young man to wait while he made a phone call.
Ten minutes later, Sheriff Hanson stepped into the room and asked questions of the two young lovers for over an hour. Finally, Kathy agreed to show him the exact spot where the package had been located. But he refused to answer her questions as to why, simply saying that it was official police business. Jack went home a short while later and heard from Kathy after the Sheriff dropped her off as he had promised.
What the two of them found out the next day was just exactly why the doctor had been so thorough in the cleansing of the wound and just exactly what they had hauled to the clinic with them. They had gone the entire night unaware of the fact that they had found a portion of the mortal remains of Tommy Blake, primarily, the upper torso region. The sheriff found three more bags in the same basic area, one with his arms, one with his legs and one with his head, which apparently warranted a bag all its own. They’d have both slept better if they’d never heard of the bags’ contents.
It took a while for Rick Lewis to realize which part of Tommy was which. Whoever had killed him had made certain to break every single bone in his body, with the single exception of those in his head. In a moment of near hysteria, Rick pointed out to his college roommate, that if the look on the corpse’s face was any indication, the victim had been alive for the vast majority of the bone breaking. Had Hanson been a softer man, he would have lost his three chili dog lunch, much as Rick had when the realization came to him. Chuck considered shock to be a luxury. He did, however, find it to be very peculiar that the fish had refused to partake of the flesh left in the waters for them. The bags had all been torn and they would have had ample opportunity. After he’d listened to all that Rick had to say, Chuck nodded and, looking a mite on the pale side, excused himself.
When the chili-dogs had finished freeing themselves of his stomach, he broke the law and lit himself a cigarette. When he was finished, he had another. When he came out of the rest room, walking through the virtual cloud of nicotine that flowed freely from the enclosed space, he ignored Rick’s shocked stare and lit two more. Rick Lewis hated smoking and always had, since he lost his father to cancer. Today was an exception, despite the coughing fit, he’d never loved the idea as much. He decided that the next body he found was going to start him on being a regular smoker and to prove his point, asked Chuck for another, right after he’d analyzed the protein traces that he found inside the cranium of the dear departed. Chuck gave the cigarette willingly and smiled as he looked out of the morgue’s window. The smile would have scared away the Bogey Man.
Less than an hour later, Alan Fisk was assigned to watch Mark Howell. He’d be relieved some eight hours later by the part time deputy, Pat Whalen.
At eight in the morning, the day after the tail was assigned, Mark Howell turned himself in. It should have made Chuck Hanson’s life easier, it didn’t.
CHAPTER NINE
1
Chuck Hanson looked at Mark Howell and saw not an evil mass murderer, but a scared and confused young man. He would have preferred the mass murderer; it would have made his life ever so much easier.
He sat down at his desk and lit one of his patented hand rolled cigarettes and turned his predatory eyes towards Mark. Mark looked back at him and trembled. Whatever else the boy might be, he thought, he sure as shit ain’t a killer.
“I understand you might know something about what happened to the Blake boy,” he started, his voice a deep rumble in his barrel chest. “You want to tell me what that might be?”
Mark looked the Sheriff dead in the eye and with a trembling lower lip and a voice that cracked like thin ice responded, “I think I might have killed him, but I don’t remember it.”
Through the open doorway he could hear the sounds of his two town drunks screaming their protests at the cruel mistreatment they suffered in the arms of the law. Along with the original town drunk, Sam Posten, they now had the nightly pleasure of William Phillips’ presence. The man had taken to drinking heavily when he heard about his son’s suicide and nothing on this earth seemed strong enough to stop his need for liquor. He’d lost his job, his wife and about fifty pounds so far and Chuck couldn’t think of anything that would change the trend he was on. He felt sorry for the man, but refused to let him wander around the town nightly. If only for the man’s own safety he ended up with Will in his jail until ten in the morning, almost religiously.
Hanson lowered his head for a moment and rubbed at his temples. He absolutely hated days like this one; nothing ever seemed to come easily. Every fiber of his being screamed that Mark had something to do with the murders and he knew it wasn’t just his paranoia about strangers. Rick, a stranger in town himself, felt the same way. “So, why don’t you tell me what you know or think you know and I’ll see if it matches up with what we know.”
Mark proceeded to tell him about the confrontation with Tommy Blake, leaving out only the reason that he went in search of him that day. Chuck, for his part, asked him questions about when the incident had occurred, what he had been wearing and whether or not he’d had any weapons with him.
Mark was rather shocked and even a mite indignant at the thought that he might resort to a weapon and went about explaining as much (but very diplomatically, as the Sheriff was still a giant in comparison, despite his recent growth spurts). The Sheriff held up a hand and explained the line of questioning, in a round about way. “I didn’t mean to hurt your pride, boy, I’m just doing my job. I can’t divulge any details, but I feel fairly safe in saying that if you weren’t using any weapons, you wouldn’t have stood a chance in hell against the Blake boy.”
Once that would have been a relief to Mark. Now, he was again, mildly hurt by the comment. Hanson cautioned listening before taking anything the wrong way and continued. “Tommy Blake was a black-belt in Tae Kwon do, certified and registered. Most likely, no one without the element of surprise would have been able to drop him in hand to hand combat, ’cept maybe somebody like his uncle, the man that taught him.”
Hanson excused himself and picked up the phone rapidly dialing a number that he must’ve memorized. He turned his back on Mark and talked in a low quiet tone to whoever was on the other end of the line; Mark could hear the sounds, but not quite make out the words. After almost ten minutes, the sheriff hung up and turned back to him. “I was just talking to Doc Lewis, I believe you know him, worked on your stitches awhile ago if I remember right. Anyway, he’s also a qualified forensics doctor and I’ve been taking advantage of that, so I can get quick responses about what killed people in this area. Now, I won’t tell you what was done to Tommy Blake, but I have been assured by the doctor that nobody could have done anything like what was done to that poor boy without a great deal of heavy equipment, or at least a few dozen dogs.”
Mark looked puzzled by that and reminded the man that he didn’t own a dog. “I know that Mark,” he pinned Mark in place with a look. “I know a great deal about you. It’s my job to learn about everyone that moves into my town.” The way he emphasized the “MY” in his last comment hit Mark well and he swallowed any discomfort he felt about the man looking into his past. Obviously, Charles Hanson took his responsibilities to heart. “I know where you went to school and I know where you’ve lived. See, I thought long and hard about you moving to town and all the things that have happened since then.” Mark didn’t quite know whether or not he liked where the conversation was going. Wisely, he kept his mouth shut. “I’ve been watching you and I’ve been watching your folks. Before you go and take that the wrong way, I’ll remind you that it’s m
y job to keep the peace in this town and I take it very seriously. I’d watch anyone who came to Summitville the same way.
“What I’m getting at, is that I don’t believe you have it in you to do the kind of damage that was done to Tommy Blake, or to Pete Larson. I still don’t quite understand what happened on the day you got shot, but I imagine that was just one of those things that never really gets explained. All I know, is that you couldn’t have been responsible for that one either. Personally, I think you’ve been listening to the wrong voices in this town, the ones that take offense at you and yours moving here in the first place.”
The sheriff leaned forward, close enough to Mark that he could smell the tobacco on his breath. “I’m a very thorough man, I know approximately what time you went home that night, because you told me. I know about what time Tommy Blake died, because of what Rick Lewis told me. To a degree, those times coincide. But not to a big enough degree. Not only do I think you don’t have it in you to kill a man, I know you couldn’t have killed Tommy Blake. Hell, you’re lucky he didn’t cave your chest in when he kicked you.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes and Hanson could almost see the gears in the kid’s head going around as he absorbed what he’d been told.
Finally Mark stood up and held his hand out for Hanson, who, suppressing a smile at the solemn look on the boy’s face, took his sweaty palm firmly in his own and shook it. He thanked the sheriff for his time and for the information and Hanson would have sworn that he looked ten years younger when he finally left the office.
Then Hanson reflected on what Rick Lewis had told him about the fluid found in each case and thought about the time his grandfather had visited him, after he had already died, and suppressed a shudder. He didn’t bother to tell his deputies that they could come in from watching Mark Howell, he felt that the extra watch couldn’t hurt.
“Back to square one,” he sighed, never realizing that the sweat he wiped from his hand onto his pants leg, held traces of a strange protein that Rick Lewis would have recognized in a heartbeat.
2
Mark was feeling a world and a half better as he left for Red Oaks. All of his doubts had been crushed by the simple and direct manner in which the sheriff had assured him. He forced himself not to think about the way in which Tommy must’ve died and he forced himself not to think about the last comment the man had made to him. The one about caved in rib cages. Instead he thought of Cassie and the world brightened of its own accord.
He carefully pulled onto Third Avenue, avoiding the black Mustang that was taking the corner at the same time and pumping his legs as hard and as fast as he could. His trusty old bike took the torture with a minimum of protest and he felt the exhilaration that always accompanied a high-speed charge down the long stretch of road. The first mile disappeared under the Schwinn’s tires in near record time.
As summer was officially here, he stopped well before his subdivision and decided to pay a visit to P.J.. He pulled his bike off the main road and into the long driveway that stopped at the Basilisk. As he headed towards the glass front doors, Mark paused to study the statuary, marveling at the crude beauty that he could see in each of them. One day, he thought, I’m going to own a house just like this one.
The ideas for stories were already whirling through his head, calling sometimes softly and sometimes with great force, demanding his attention now that he no longer feared for his sanity. The answer had been right in front of him the entire time and he had never even noticed; it was obvious to him in hindsight that Tommy must’ve knocked him into unconsciousness when he planted the kick in his stomach. The killer may have been very close to him, but he wasn’t the killer himself. Equilibrium had been returned and he accepted the peace it offered, eagerly.
When he pushed the door open, he was surprised to see Tyler, looking over books with P.J.. The two of them practically jumped out of their seats as they spotted him and then relaxed noticeably, but with an effort. “Hi guys,” Mark called, “I was up and thought I’d stop by, see if you needed any help.” This last called directly to P.J., who beamed winningly and told him to come on over, despite the quickly concealed look of terror that crossed Ty’s face.
“We’ve been looking over my old research books, trying to find a reference to some little creatures that haunt the forests at night, something like goblins, or gremlins. I know I have a book on the damned things, but I just can’t find it anywhere.”
Mark flashed his easy going grin and walked over to the small island where his friends waited. “Have you looked over your inventory sheets? I thought you’d categorized and cross referenced what was in each of the books.”
P.J. frowned sheepishly and Tyler shot a death-glare at him, as he confessed. “I lost them. I haven’t been able to find the damned things in the last three months.”
It was Mark’s turn to receive the evil eye when he walked over to P.J.’s filing cabinet and almost without bothering to look, pulled a computer disk from one of the files. “It’s under ‘I,’ for ‘inventory.’ You asked me to file all of this weeks ago, I took the liberty of cleaning up your files when I did.” He looked at the two scowling men before him and laughed easily. “Hey, I can’t help it if you’re a slob. I just did what I was told.”
P.J. mumbled his thanks, under his breath and went directly to his word processor. He booted up the necessary file and started looking. After a moment he shut the computer back down and found what he was looking for in a book that both of them had over looked several times.
Mark looked at the two of them and was glad that both Tyler and P.J. had found someone to kill time with. It gave him more free time for his own writing and for Cassie. After a few more minutes and a quick conversation off to the side, where he told a very relieved Tyler about his visit to the sheriff’s office and the resulting revelations, he said his good-bye’s and went to see if Cassie was busy.
He was in too good a mood to notice the strange looks his two friends had exchanged. The sun was high in the sky, the girl he loved was close enough that he would be with her in mere minutes and his mind was finally processing raw ideas, converting them into a coherent pattern that he would spend a good portion of his night working on putting into words.
He was in too good a mood to even wonder why the Mustang he’d noticed after leaving the sheriff’s office, was still following him.
3
Tyler looked over at P.J. steadily, not talking, just staring, until the writer finally looked up at him with an exasperated sigh.
“Have I suddenly grown some unusual feature that you find fascinating, or are you glaring at me for another reason?”
“You told him what we were doing! What are you nuts?” Tyler pushed his battered lenses back in place and continued. “What if he’d decided to stay, help us look for the information? What the hell would we have done then?”
P.J. looked at Tyler with amusement and then knocked his hard knuckles against the youth’s brow. “Hello? Is anyone home?” Tyler pulled back with a shocked look on his face—for just a second he’d had a flash of when Tony had done the same thing to him, way back in the fifth grade; the difference was that Tony had used a locker door, rather than his knuckles. “Of course, I told him what we’re doing. Why on earth shouldn’t I?”
“Well, maybe because if he does have little monsters running around to protect him, they’d take what we’re doing as a threat against him?” Tyler looked triumphant, certain that his comment had made a telling blow against his latest victim.
P.J. smiled thinly and arched both of his eyebrows, as he fired his retort. “Why? As far as Mark knows, you’re just helping me research a story.”
Tyler cracked his knuckles, preparing for a solid fight. Ah, the challenges that a sharp opponent brought always made a victory ever so much sweeter. “I-.” He shut his mouth, suddenly feeling the full weight of the author’s remark. His mouth tried to work, but his brain wasn’t having anything to do with it. He closed his eyes momentarily
and forced his brain to come up with a proper comeback. Finally, it did. “Touche`, I hadn’t thought of that.”
P.J. smirked victoriously and patted him on the head. “I was a champion debater in college. You’re ever so good, Tyler my lad, but I’ve taken on the best and won.”
Tyler scowled, trying to convince himself it was just a case of hating a poor winner, rather than his being a poor loser. His host was pouring them both mugs of coffee, something Tyler would never have expected to gain a liking for until he had met the man, when he asked another question. “So, what did you find on your disk, that we hadn’t located in that book?”
“Not a single solitary thing.” Tyler looked over puzzled by the answer and after the appropriate dramatic pause, got an answer to his unspoken question. “I simply felt in acting that I had found what was necessary, I could get to the problem at hand without our friend making it even more difficult.”
“Which problem would that be,” Tyler asked.
The writer set down the coffee and took a sip of his overly sweetened brew, before responding. “The fact that three of my books are missing,” Tyler watched as the man’s eyebrows pulled down in a frown. “And the fact that one of those books is one that I fear we’ve been looking for.”
The two sat in silence for several moments, as the talented writer tried to put into words an event that he’d never written about. “You see, Tyler, I have a suspicion that I know what it is that is haunting dear Mark and that I may very well be the cause of the problem.” Looking into the writer’s eyes, Tyler felt himself grow cold and wondered if it was a tale that he wanted to hear.
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