by Carrie Jones
“Somebody needs to put pressure on those wounds,” Logan orders, jumping into the truck and doing it himself.
Fear and concern fill all the men’s faces. Their mouths and eyes are hard and bright. I catch only snippets of the conversation.
“Can’t wait for the ambulance.”
“Too much blood loss.”
“I’m coming with him.”
“The police are headed this way.”
The snippets all swirl around in my head as the men waste time figuring out what to do. Logan, poor Logan, he is so sweet and tries to be so strong. My heart breaks for him.
“You need to go now,” I say in my loudest, most commanding voice. “Mrs. Jennings, you go with him. You too, Katie and Kelsey and Logan. The police can interview you at the hospital.”
“Someone has to stay here, keep the farm safe,” Logan says.
“We will,” one of the men says, jumping out of the truck. “We won’t go chasing him anymore tonight, but we’ll patrol the farm. I expect some deputies will too.”
Two men stay in the truck. Three get out of the back and two leave the front, which is where Katie and Kelsey go to sit. The truck flies off into the darkness, dirt swirling behind its back wheels. We all stare at it, watching it retreat.
“Holy crap,” one of the men says. “Holy crap.”
Dad puts his hand on my shoulder. I’d forgotten he was there, but right now his words echo the other men’s. “Holy crap is absolutely right.”
* * *
The police come without an ambulance. They met Mr. Jennings on the road and transferred him into the ambulance right there so that they could transport him the rest of the way to the hospital.
The officers in uniform and some men in plainclothes tape off the living room, dust the back door for prints, take pictures of the bodies. The living room is starting to smell like feces and rotten eggs and cabbage mixed with mothballs. They ask us questions, making my dad, David, and me go alone with them one by one to Katie’s bedroom, which is now police headquarters, I guess. After what seems like hours of this, the coroner’s truck comes and takes the bodies away.
The house phone rings and David gets it. When he hangs up, he says, “He’s in the intensive care ward. He’s lost a lot of blood, but they think if he holds on tonight, he’ll make it through.”
Relief seems to rush out of everyone.
“Logan, Kelsey, and Katie are coming back with Sam, but Mrs. Jennings is staying there for the rest of the night,” he adds.
There isn’t much left of the night, not really. Looking for something useful to do, I straighten up Katie’s bed and turn down her sheets, and then I do the same with Kelsey’s and Logan’s. The police investigators and the coroner truck have finally left, but there is still a patrol car parked in the driveway. It’ll be here until morning. I try not to worry about the officer being a sitting duck out there.
Dad has gone back to his table of experiments. His food would have been untouched except that Galahad stole the chicken off the plate when he thought nobody was looking. I guess evil men, dead bodies, injured masters, and a monster don’t affect that dog’s stomach, but it really has affected mine.
I drift around Logan’s room. It’s so guy. There are books about war, knights, and zombies in a pile by his bed. A picture of him and David with a monster fish is tacked to the wall. They’re both smiling super-huge. They look so innocent and unworried, pre-monster. On the wall above his desk is a gun rack with one rifle in the wooden notches. The other set of notches is empty. Beside the gun rack, one of those compound bow thingies hangs on a hook in the wall. But what catches my attention is an open notebook on his desk. I glance at it. The lines are short and the writing is neat. Each letter looks as if it was thought out. I resist the urge to read what he wrote, because that would be too snoopy. Instead I go and smell his shirt, which is almost creepy. It smells like grass and coconut and boy deodorant. It smells ridiculously good.
I put it back. Poor Logan. I can’t even imagine how he must be feeling. Or Kelsey or Katie. Or Mrs. Jennings. They’re so nice and they’re being terrorized by this thing, and those men … Those awful men with the guns. I play bass for a while, picking away at it. My fingers are totally healed now. I can play again, but it doesn’t help. I don’t lose myself, don’t make anything beautiful or interesting, don’t feel more skilled.
Headlights swing up the road and stop in the driveway. I rush downstairs to meet Logan, Katie, and Kelsey. They have to come in through the kitchen because the police want to preserve the crime scene/living room for another day or so.
Logan comes in first, carrying the sleeping form of Katie. I want to rush into his arms and tell him it’ll be okay, comfort him, but instead I have to make do with a look that passes between us.
“I’m going to bring her upstairs,” he whispers as Thunder sniffs at his ankles and thumps his tail a couple times.
Kelsey comes in next and she looks from me to David, as if trying to decide who to hug first. She goes to me because I’m closer, I think.
“It’s all so awful,” she sobs. “He looks so awful.”
I do my best to comfort her and then motion for David to help since he’s known her longer. He sort of awkwardly comes over and starts patting her back. She turns and throws her arms around him, sobbing. He looks surprised but returns the hug.
“It’ll be okay,” he says, using the same words I used. “It’ll be okay.”
Dad watches this all with interest but doesn’t say anything. He does, however, actually take a sip of his water, which has been sitting there all night. Logan comes back down the stairs.
“Mr. Davis is outside,” he says, “talking to the cop.”
He updates us on what happened. Kelsey and I sit on the counter and listen. She holds my hand. David leans by the back door, watching outside but listening. Dad stays in his chair but he also listens. Logan paces from stove to refrigerator, telling us all what happened.
“The police are going to arrange another hunt tomorrow, focusing on our property,” he says, “because so much activity happened here. They aren’t charging Mom with anything…”
Kelsey snorts. “Like they could.”
“… since it’s self-defense,” Logan finishes. “And they’re going to look for that third guy based on our descriptions.”
“I don’t think you understand how urgent it is that we find this man,” Dad says, finally speaking. He looks at Logan and then at Kelsey and then at David and then, finally, at me.
“Dad…”
“We know it’s urgent, Mr. Lawson Smith. He hurt our dad,” Kelsey says. Her hand squeezes mine. “He’s killing people and eating them.”
“Yes, yes … That’s part of it, but…” He looks into my eyes, as if asking permission to speak the unspeakable. I nod. “It bit your father, Logan. Kelsey. It didn’t just maul him. It bit him, and that means that if we do not find the beast and a potential antidote, that he, too, will become a monster.”
Logan staggers back and bumps his butt into the counter so hard that the silverware in the dish rack actually shakes. “What? You mean…”
Dad nods even as Logan’s words trail off. “Yes, I mean your father will become a werewolf.”
19
LOGAN
Werewolf?
I look at them, all these people staring back at me, and it’s like they’re there but not really there. They’re fake. They’re those big cardboard cutouts of people like they have outside movie theaters. Except they’re not. They are looking at me and their faces are worried and expectant and I don’t know what to say. How can this be? Then Kelsey hiccups a huge sob and I focus in on her.
“This is so not fair,” Kelsey says. She hunches over and her shoulders shake. Chrystal goes to her, wraps her arms around her, and holds her.
“What—” My mouth moves, but I can’t push any air through my throat. I take a deep breath, lick my lips, and try again. “What can we do about it?”
“We have to find the werewolf,” Mr. Lawson Smith says. “That’s the first thing.”
“Why do you keep calling it a werewolf?” David asks. “I thought it was Bigfoot.”
Mr. Lawson Smith’s eyes light up in the way only a teacher who’s about to deliver a favorite lesson can.
“A common misconception,” he says. “I have a theory. I’ve written it up, but all the journals have rejected it so far. This is my chance to prove it’s true.” He pauses and looks at me and Kelsey. A little of his enthusiasm drains away, but only for a moment. “I’m just very sorry it’s at your family’s expense.”
“What’s your theory?” I ask.
“No one has ever found a Bigfoot,” he says. “No one has ever captured one. No one has ever produced a corpse. Not even a partial corpse. Fingers, arms, whatever. No skeletons. Think about that.” He’s really wound up now. “Why? You have to ask yourself why that is. All these supposed sightings, tracks, even bad video footage, and yet no body. Why not?
“Some say it’s because they take care of their dead, like we do,” he continued. “They bury them, some supposed experts say. Because there aren’t very many of them, in relation to humans, it’s easy for them to do this in the deep woods where no human eyes can see. And yet, not one single Bigfoot grave has ever been found. Ever!”
I glance at Chrystal and Kelsey. They are both looking at Chrystal’s dad. Kelsey’s tears have stopped for the moment as she listens, but I know she could start up again at any moment. Chrystal gives me kind of a helpless look, as if to say her dad will continue like this, slowly leading up to where he’s going before he gets to his point. He is a teacher, after all, and he’s driving his lesson home.
“Burying their dead,” he says sarcastically. “Why would they do that? Are they so intelligent that they know they have to hide even their dead from us humans? Do they have religion? I say no!”
“Then why?” David finally asks. He’s never been very patient in class.
“Aha! Because”—Mr. Lawson Smith makes a long, dramatic pause before saying—“because there is no such thing as Bigfoot.”
We all stare at him.
“The alleged Bigfoot sightings are really werewolves,” he confides, as if he’s telling us the mystery of creation.
“I don’t get it,” David says.
“No Bigfoot bodies are ever found,” Mr. Lawson Smith explains. “But human bodies are found in the forest all the time. You see—”
Kelsey beats me to it. “They turn back into men when they die,” she says.
“Bingo!” Mr. Lawson Smith claps his hands, and for a second I think he’s going to jump into the air with his excitement. “Something happens to kill them. They die and become human again. Some hunter stumbles across the body later and it’s reported as a human, when in truth it was a werewolf, which would have been mistaken for Bigfoot if it had been seen before it died.”
“What kills a werewolf? Silver bullets?” David asks.
“Yes, silver does it.” Mr. Lawson Smith looks at me, nodding.
“So we just have to shoot that thing full of silver bullets?” I ask, not at all sure I believe this line of reasoning.
“Ah, if only it were that easy,” Mr. Lawson Smith says, ignoring my skepticism. “However, there are other ways. Werewolves are highly susceptible to rabies, hydrophobia.”
“Why?” I ask.
“I’m not sure,” he answers. “But they are likely to come into contact with raccoons, skunks, and other animals that have it. I believe a lot of the bodies found in the forest—those not dumped by a completely human murderer or simply lost hikers—the ones who were werewolves, died of rabies.”
“Mr. Lawson Smith,” I finally say, “I don’t want to be disrespectful. I’m tired. My mom killed two men and my dad is in the hospital with really bad wounds. Our living room is a mess. I don’t want to sound mean, but, really, what are you basing all of this on? The silver bullets, the rabies? Is it the movies? Comic books? Where do you go to find facts on something that isn’t supposed to exist?”
“The research is out there, Logan. It’s just hard to find. You have to read between the lines in ancient texts a lot of times. The government, too, doesn’t want it out there. Some say various governments know about the werewolves and are trying to use them for military purposes. There’s a professor at a local university here who—”
“Government conspiracies?” David asks, and he snorts a little. “Isn’t that a right-wing craziness thing?”
Mr. Lawson Smith shrugs. “I’m not necessarily saying I believe that part, but the references to werewolves, or lycanthropy, is there in various forms if you know where to look.”
“Dad, everyone’s really tired. Can we finish this in the morning?” Chrystal asks. She looks to me and says, “It really is a lot to take in, especially after all that’s gone on today.” Then she turns back to her dad. “They’re hearing this for the first time. Let them sleep on what you’ve said so far, then you can tell us the rest in the morning.”
“I want to hear the rest,” I say. “But those cows are going to be lining up for milking in just a few hours. If that thing, your werewolf, didn’t scare them so bad that they won’t milk. Kelsey, are you going to be up to help me?”
She nods, and I’m suddenly very proud of my little sister. Would I have blamed her if she’d broken down crying again and said she just couldn’t do it? I don’t know. Maybe. But I don’t have to answer that, because she knows the responsibilities that come with running a farm. Something in my face must give away what I’m thinking, because suddenly Chrystal smiles at me.
“How about you, David?” I ask. “Want to help?”
“Sure,” he says.
I’d ask Mr. Lawson Smith, but he’s already seemingly sunk back into himself. His eyes have that distant, distracted look they did earlier, when he was sitting at his microscope and makeshift desk.
“I can help,” Chrystal offers. “I mean, I’ve never done it, but I can learn.”
“It’s no fun,” David warns.
“The thing is,” I say, “Katie needs to sleep in. She’ll probably sleep through the whole thing, but if she doesn’t, and she wakes up and can’t find anyone, it will scare her pretty bad.”
“Especially if she goes in the living room and sees the bloodstains on the carpet and has to relive it all again,” Kelsey adds. “I really don’t want her to see that. Mom wouldn’t either.”
“Okay, I’ll stay for her,” Chrystal says. “But I’m going to do something useful. I can make breakfast while you guys work.”
* * *
We leave Mr. Lawson Smith at his table. I’m not sure where he’ll sleep now that the living room is a crime scene, but he brushes me off with a “Have no worries for me, young fellow” when I try to mention it. The girls take blankets and pillows into Katie’s room to make pallets on the floor. David does the same in my room. I linger in the hallway, waiting for Chrystal to notice me. Eventually she does and comes out to join me. I lead her into my parents’ bedroom, then catch her hands in mine.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I tell her.
“Me too.” She leans into me, resting her head against my chest. She’s warm and solid but also so soft and feminine.
“Thank you for everything you’re doing. All the help,” I say.
“Ummm,” she says, and kind of nuzzles me in a sleepy way. “You’ve really taken charge of a bad situation.”
“It doesn’t feel like it. It feels like that thing out there is in charge.”
“We’ll win,” she says. “My dad may sound crazy, but I think he knows what he’s talking about.”
“He seems to be the only option we have.” I reach up and stroke her hair and it seems so natural. I can’t help it. I don’t want to not touch her. “My dad…,” I begin. “He’d kill himself before he becomes like that thing.”
“I know. He’s a good man. Like his son.”
We hold each other for a few minutes a
nd it feels so good. It feels right and comforting and like something I want to do forever. Forever … “Chrystal?”
“Hmm?”
“What about when this is over? When it’s time, you know, for you to leave? I … I don’t know. I like having you here. I like … Well, I like you. A lot.”
Her smile flickers, but only for a second. “I like you too, Logan. We’ll worry about the rest when it happens, okay? Right now we have other things to worry about. Get to sleep. Those cows won’t wait. Remember? Good night.”
She leaves me standing there in my parents’ bedroom, missing her.
* * *
In the morning, as we’re stumbling out the back door, I notice that Mr. Lawson Smith isn’t sitting at his table. Kelsey notices too.
“Where do you think he is?” she asks as we cross the dark yard.
“Asleep, probably,” David answers.
“Where?” she persists.
“On the…” I trail off. He can’t sleep on the couch. It’s part of the crime scene. I shrug. “Maybe he went up to Mom and Dad’s room.”
“His car’s gone,” Kelsey says.
We all stop and look at the driveway. An older green Dodge pickup sits empty. It belongs to Mike Dooley, one of the men who volunteered to stay and watch over the cattle last night. In front of the truck is the sheriff’s patrol car with a dozing deputy inside. The red Subaru is nowhere to be seen.
“I’ll ask,” I say, heading for the cop car. I knock on the window, which is halfway down. My knock scares the young deputy inside. He jumps and I see his hand jerk to the gun holstered at his hip before he realizes I’m probably not a threat. He turns the key in the ignition and lowers the window the rest of the way. The heat is overwhelming and I almost burn myself on the door handle.
“Sorry,” he says. “Nothing else happened, so I guess I slept a little. You guys doing the milking?”
“Yeah. We were wondering, though, if you saw Mr. Lawson Smith leave?” I ask.