Bone White

by Ronald Malfi

  “Okay,” she said, not understanding.

  He tugged at the backpack again.

  She just shook her head, still not comprehending . . . but then she looked down at the backpack. Stitched to the front of it was a small white card tucked into a clear plastic window. It was a luggage tag, and there was what appeared to be a name and address printed on it.

  It read:

  ROBERTA CHALMERS

  5 WINTERCREST LANE

  BETHEL, ALASKA

  “Jesus Christ,” she said.

  Paul released his grip on the backpack and pointed across the clearing. His hand was covered in blood. Ryerson followed the gesture and saw that there were splotches of blood in the snow leading all the way to the edge of a cliff. The snow had been disturbed. There were strange tracks all over the place. There was a rifle on the ground, too.

  “Okay,” she said, patting Paul’s shoulder. She stood and followed the bloody snow toward the edge of the cliff. It overlooked a ravine, and she peered down into it.

  There was a man dead at the bottom, his torn and bloodied body powdered in places with snow. There were deep wounds and gouges across the man’s chest, his arms, and a deep slice along the one cheek that had flayed the skin away so that Ryerson could see the man’s teeth in a neat, white row. The man’s single exposed eye socket was filled with bloody snow.

  A few feet away from the man was the largest goddamn wolf Ryerson had ever seen. Its matted, blood-streaked fur was as dark and smooth as velvet, and its paws were the size of catcher’s mitts. She could see one of its dull green eyes staring up at nothing. A large buck knife protruded from the animal’s belly, the hilt of which was only a few inches from the man’s bloodied, outstretched hand. There was a ragged tear that ran the length of the creature’s belly, from which ropes of pinkish-purple intestines had unspooled out onto the snowy ground like a nest of wet, iridescent snakes.

  It was the sound of churning helicopter rotors that ultimately snapped her out of her stupor. Ryerson looked up and saw a helicopter carving a wide berth across the sky, nearly touching the treetops.

  She went into the center of the snowy clearing and began waving her arms.

  34

  That he would suffer nightmares for the weeks and months to come, there was no doubt. He would move through the daylight hours with the grim certainty that everything he had ever believed to be real and true was only a dazzling light show in the night sky. And whenever he looked in the mirror, it was Danny’s face that looked back at him. That, of course, had always been the case. But it was even more so now.

  He awoke in a hospital bed with gauze wrappings on both feet, a large square bandage across his navel, and an IV drip in his right arm. He was cold. There was only a starchy white bedsheet draped over him, but he thought they could outfit him in a space suit and ship him to the equator and his teeth would continue to chatter. He wondered if it was a sensation he would ever get rid of.

  The doctor who managed to save his life was named Epstein. He was less successful in saving the two small toes on Paul’s left foot. They had been amputated, and Paul was told that he would be walking with a cane for a while until he got used to it. He took the news with minimal emotion, and the tears he shed during the night were not for himself but for his brother.

  That first night in the hospital, as he drifted in and out of consciousness, he opened his eyes to find Danny seated in one of the molded plastic chairs at the foot of his bed. He was cleanly shaven and had cut his hair. He smiled at Paul, and Paul smiled back. Then Danny got up and walked out of the room. Paul could hear his footfalls recede down the hallway. It was too real to be a dream.

  On his second day of consciousness, he was visited by Jill Ryerson. She was dressed in jeans and a UAA Seawolves sweatshirt. She smiled at him and asked how he was feeling.

  “Like I’ve been through hell and back,” he told her . . . and then brayed uncontrollable laughter. After a time, the laughter turned into sobs. Jill Ryerson slipped out of the room and left him to it.

  * * *

  A few days later, he found himself leaning on his walking cane in the doorway of Jill Ryerson’s office. When she looked up, he could tell by her expression just how terrible he looked. He felt terrible. He thought it would be a long time before he felt normal again. If he ever did.

  “Hello,” he said. “Is this a bad time?”

  “Not at all,” she said, getting up and moving around her desk. “Come in, Paul.” She closed the door as he hobbled into the office with his cane and sat in the chair in front of her desk. She rolled her desk chair around and sat down next to him. “You look better. How’re you feeling?”

  “Twenty-nine stitches across my gut, plus I’ll be heading home tomorrow with two toes less than I came here with.” He smiled at her, but there was still much grief there. He could feel it hanging from his face like counterweights, and he could see it reflected in Jill Ryerson’s face, too. “Some cops came by the hospital the other day and said I needed to give a statement before I went home. I told them what Danny told me. I told them there are other victims out there.”

  “Yes. We’ve already got men doing a preliminary search of the woods up where the cabin had been. Unless they find something right away, we may have to put things off till spring. Snow’s moving in and the roads will be closed soon.”

  “The road,” Paul corrected. “Just one. In and out.”

  Ryerson nodded. “I notified Peggy Chalmers about the backpack you found with your brother’s stuff in that cabin, too.”

  “Good.”

  “Paul, how did you find your brother out there? How’d you know where to look?”

  “Actually, he found me. I just got lost out there. He saved my life.”

  Ryerson opened a drawer and took out a small digital recorder. She showed it to him. “For your statement, if that’s okay.”

  “That’s fine,” he said. “But I guess I’m just wondering what statement I should give.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” he said, “I can tell you a story you’ll believe. One you’ll be satisfied with. Or I can tell you what really happened out there, and leave you to come to your own conclusion.”

  “I want to hear what really happened.”

  “Okay. But first, about the wolf . . .”

  “I thought your doctor would have told you. It was sent to the lab and tested for rabies. You’re all clear.”

  “They cut off the head when they test an animal for rabies, right?”

  If Ryerson found this to be an unusual question, she didn’t let it show. “They do. Yes.”

  He nodded, satisfied. “It wasn’t really a wolf, you know,” he said. “But I won’t start there. I’ll start at the beginning. In hindsight, it’s all a lot clearer to me now.”

  Ryerson turned on the digital recorder, then set it on the edge of her desk. She was still smiling at him, but Paul noticed that something had sharpened in her eyes now. She’s no dummy, he thought.

  “Have you heard the stories about that place?” he asked. “Dread’s Hand?”

  “About the devil, you mean,” Ryerson said.

  Paul forced a smile. “I saw something out there that I can’t explain. I’m still trying to process it, even though I know what really happened.”

  “What really happened?” asked Ryerson.

  “My brother tricked the devil,” Paul said, then told her everything. And twenty minutes later, when he was done, a silence fell between them. Ryerson had turned and was staring out the window at the snow falling in the parking lot. After a moment, she leaned over, picked up the recorder, and turned it off.

  “Maybe I’ll just handwrite this one,” she said.

  “I know how it sounds. I won’t ask you to believe me. That’s not important. But I just wanted you to know what really happened. Keep it in mind when you think of my brother, and what he did out there.”

  “That’s for a higher power to judge,” Ryerson said. “I’m
just a cop.”

  And I’m just a man who has lost part of himself. I’m one-half of a set. The rest of me is gone, gone.

  “Anyway, I don’t think there’ll be any more horror stories about Dread’s Hand. You can believe what you like, Ms. Ryerson, but you can rest easy on that score.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s just something I feel.” He considered this, then added, “Or maybe it’s something I felt through Danny. Right at the end.”

  He grunted as he rose up from the chair, the walking cane wobbling back and forth like a loose post in soft ground. “Take care,” he said, and made his way toward the door.

  “Don’t be so quick to judge,” Ryerson said.

  He turned and looked at her.

  “I’ve heard a few stories lately that I can’t explain,” she said. “One of which has to do with that wolf.”

  “What about it?”

  “The report we received from the lab,” she said. “DNA test said the wolf was over a hundred years old.”

  Paul said nothing, only stared at her.

  “That’s impossible, of course. Thing is, they couldn’t retest it because the animal had already been destroyed. I’ve seen plenty of those tests come back with bogus results before. It’s no big deal. I guess this one’s no different.” She looked at him. “Right? ”

  “I guess so,” he said.

  Ryerson nodded. “That’s what I thought,” she said. “You have a good flight home, Mr. Gallo.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and shuffled out into the hallway.

  * * *

  Outside, he limped through the parking lot toward his rental car as clumps of snow fell all around him. At one point, he glanced up at the station house and thought he saw Jill Ryerson watching him from her office window.

  He realized he was crying when his cheeks began to freeze. He wiped away the tears and exhaled a shuddery breath. Just before he reached the car, he thought he felt a tightening at the center of his stomach.

  Your Manipura. It was Erin Sharma’s voice whispering in his head. It grants you the power to save or destroy the world. For the first time in his life, Paul Gallo realized that those things are sometimes one and the same.

  You were right, Erin. Only thing is, you were right about the wrong brother.

  He climbed into his car, cranked the ignition, and sat there while the windshield wipers swiped away the snow. Only once did he give in to the temptation and peer up at the rearview mirror, not expecting yet still hoping that he might see Danny’s reflection staring back at him. And in a way, he did.

  He pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway, heading toward downtown. At the horizon, the foothills rose until they turned white and faded into the sky.

  Winter was coming, and it promised to be a cold one.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  With the risk of sounding nepotistic, my primary thanks go to my dad, Ron Sr., and my wife, Deb, for their tireless support and advice during the writing of this novel. They were both still providing input and support up until the day this manuscript was due on my editor’s desk. Thanks also to my friend Jim Braswell for his editorial suggestions; he took time away from his own writing to assist me with mine, and I cannot think of a more selfless act.

  Many thanks to my editor, Peter Senftleben, whose suggestions improved this novel, and to Michaela Hamilton for picking up the torch. It’s an author’s great pleasure to work with a conscientious and caring editor, so in that regard, I have been doubly blessed.

  Thanks to my tireless agent, Cameron McClure, whose efforts always go beyond that of an agent—you wouldn’t be reading this right now if it wasn’t for her.

  In seeking details that would make this book realistic, I relied on input from some wonderful folks who have lived in Alaska—Richard Larrabee, Claire L. Fishback (another generous author), and Melissa Sirevog.

  Lastly, my heartfelt gratitude to the hardworking men and women of the Alaska State Troopers. They were always eager to answer my questions and to provide information that helped make the investigative elements of this story as realistic as possible. My gratitude goes out to them, not only for their willingness to help with my book, but for putting their lives on the line every single day.

  Photo by Debra Malfi

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  RONALD MALFI is an award-winning author of several horror novels, mysteries, and thrillers. He is the recipient of two Independent Publisher Book Awards, the Beverly Hills Book Award, the Vincent Preis Horror Award, the Benjamin Franklin Award for Popular Fiction, and he is a Bram Stoker Award nominee. Most recognized for his haunting, literary style and memorable characters, Malfi’s dark fiction has gained acceptance among readers of all genres. He currently lives in Maryland with his wife, Debra, and their two daughters. Learn more about Ronald and his work at ronmalfi.com.