by Hunter Shea
No one saw what was about to happen coming, least of all the cop standing on the back step.
And even if they had, there was nothing they could do to stop it.
CHAPTER 11
Henderson leaned in close to Dalton and said softly, “Kid, you may be right. I didn’t want to say it in front of them, but from what I see out here, this was done by animals. Just how many I can’t tell. There are too many tracks and they go all over the place. I’ve done enough hunting in my life to know the difference between human and animal prints. The part that worries me is that only a bear could wreck a room like that. I’ll swear on my mother’s grave that when we get some light back here, we won’t find a single bear track. These prints are big, but they’re not bear.”
Dalton unconsciously balled his fists, clenching them. He hoped to hell that Anita could make it out here now, before things cooled off. Maybe she could tell them what they were dealing with and where the animals were headed. Judging by their strength, he wasn’t sure her tranquilizer gun would be the way to go. This might be the night he used the shotgun in his car.
“I don’t like the idea of a bunch of animals not being afraid of breaking into houses,” Dalton said. “I mean, who the hell ever heard of such a thing?”
Henderson shook his head. “I’ll be damned if I know. It’s like one of those stories where the circus train crashes in the night and the animals descend on the town. Except there’s no circus, no train and we have no idea what’s out there.”
They turned to look into the dark, empty yard. A bat chirped overhead, disappearing behind the stand of pine trees that lined the back of the lot.
When Dalton turned to talk to the Sullivans, a soft, galloping sound caught his attention.
Something was coming.
“Henderson, I think you should—”
It happened too fast for his eyes and brain to register. One second, Henderson was standing in the doorway, his feet planted on the top step. The next, a gray blur darted from Henderson’s left, barreling into the man. He let out a heavy grunt.
And then he was gone.
Dalton paused for a moment, a temporary paralysis that turned his muscles and joints to hardened cement. Shaking it off, he ran into the yard, heedless of his training and the mantra to always use caution.
The yard was empty.
An L-shaped depressed trail in the grass, about the width of a man, snaked away from the house, leading into the pine trees.
He turned to Mandy and Chris Sullivan, who stood holding each other. “Lock this door! Other units are on their way. Tell them I’m in pursuit of whatever took Officer Henderson.”
Both nodded rapidly, neither able to verbalize a coherent reply.
Dalton slammed the door shut and turned his flashlight on. He spoke into the walkie clipped to his shoulder.
“Dispatch, this is one-eleven. I have a downed Montauk PD officer, Norman Henderson. In pursuit.”
He started running.
“One-eleven, are you requesting an ambulance?”
“Yes. I don’t know! Something took him! Send everyone you have out here, now!”
He pumped his legs as fast as they could go, his shoulder slamming into the bark of a tree as he slipped under the thick awning of full, lush limbs. The darkness here was absolute, swallowing the meager illumination from his flashlight. Scanning the ground, he saw the wide track continue through browned pine needles. It weaved around trees while maintaining a direct course deeper into the woods. If he remembered right, the trees would soon peter out, leading to Ditch Plains Beach.
Which was adjacent to the beach at Shadmoor State Park.
“Henderson! Norm!”
His lungs burned as he ran, calling out for the man who had always been his favorite on the Montauk PD. It was Henderson who took the time to show him every nook and cranny of the town when he first arrived, a cherry red recruit who had never gone farther than Jones Beach and thought Montauk was in another world, which, in a way, it was. He and his wife had had him at their house for a couple of barbecues, where there had been as much laughter as food.
He’d be damned if he gave up on him.
He broke through the trees, coming upon an open field of tall grass and ragweed. Again, following the trail was made simple by the indentation in the vegetation. And there was something else: a strange odor that burned his nose. Back under the trees, the strong scent of pine must have kept the heady stink at bay. Now, it smelled like he was running behind an open garbage truck in August.
“I’m coming, Norm!”
Dashing into the sometimes chest-high ragweed, he lost the trail a couple of times but was able to quickly regain his bearings. He stopped for a moment to listen between his ragged breaths. He had to be close behind. Any sound would at least confirm that.
All he heard was a series of waves breaking on the nearby beach.
“Shit.”
He resumed his pursuit, using his hands to block the brittle stalks of ragweed from his face.
The trail and ragweed ended at a small rise overlooking the beach.
Looking down, his stomach clenched.
A wide swath ran in an almost straight line through the sand. It stopped at the surf line.
Dalton leapt down the hill, the soft sand suctioning his feet, trying to hold him back. He ran into the ocean up to his thighs, calling Henderson’s name until his throat hurt. He looked up and down the beach, but could find no reentry point back onto the beach.
The big man, and whatever had taken him, was gone.
Jason Kwap took another hit from his favorite bong, the one shaped like a naked Jenna Jameson. He’d found it in a head/porn shop down in Florida. He’d just finished his second year at the Art Institute of Jacksonville and was enjoying his reunion with his best pal since grade school, Tom Morton. They had big plans. While Jason honed his art skills, Tom stayed closer to home, getting a degree in English at NYU with heavy doses of every writing program they had.
When they graduated, they planned to collaborate on graphic novels and children’s books. Diversity was a good thing. The key was that they worked together and got rich and famous together. Somehow, they were going to be the next Stan Lee and Jack Kirby, or Shel Silverstein and, well, Shel Silverstein.
“Pass me the remote, Jay,” Tom said, leaning as far into the couch as he could.
“No. You’re not changing the channel.”
“Dude, I am not going to get baked to a cooking show.”
Jay passed him the bong. “Are you kidding me? Look at the tits on Giada. And you know she wants the world to see them. Why else would she wear shirts cut down like that?” Then he said in an awful Italian accent, “Now those are-a nice cannolis!”
Tom coughed out a thick lungful of weed smoke. They both laughed, staring at the wide-screen TV. After a minute or so, Tom said, “You’re right, man. Her rack is crazy.”
Jason backhanded him on the upper arm. “I told you. People think I don’t appreciate the classics.” On the screen, Giada rolled out some phyllo dough to make little spinach pastries. The camera panned down to the flour board, giving them a glance at her cleavage as she worked the dough.
“Speaking of racks,” Tom said, taking a long pull from his beer, “you talk to Trish about the party?”
Jason sat in a haze of smoke. He frowned. “I don’t think she’s gonna come.”
“Why not?”
“I think she’s still pissed about my breaking up with her on the limo ride to the prom.” He ran his fingers through the tight curls of his hair.
“It’s been two years.”
“I know. Then again, that’s what I do. I break hearts. The city of Jacksonville has been filled with tears ever since I left.”
Tom grunted. “The town of Montauk has been crying ever since you came back. So, no Trish. Well, I asked Annie and she’s good to go, and she’s bringing her three hot cousins visiting from North or South Carolina, like there’s any difference. Counting everyone els
e, I think we’ll have like twenty people.”
They gave each other a hard fist bump. Jason said, “Sweet. It’ll be nice to get everyone together again. I’m picking up the keg tomorrow afternoon. You need to get like a dozen bags of ice.”
“Got it covered.”
Giada went to commercial and they were about to see if anything good was on Skinemax when something thumped against the sliding glass doors.
“What the hell was that?” Tom asked, staring at the darkness past the glass with wide, watery eyes.
Jason made a motion to get off the couch, then eased back down. “If that was Tim playing around, I’m going to run out there and kick his ass.”
They jumped when the glass rattled again. This time, Jason did get up, clutching the Jenna Jameson bong. “How much will you give me if I make Tim drink the bong water?”
Tom waved him off. “Tim will make you clean up what he pukes with your tongue. He’s a fucking gorilla.”
Jason looked at the door, then at the bong, hefting it.
“Just tell him to cut the crap and come in.”
“You’re such a pacifist,” Jason said.
“I’m a rationalist. Now open the door and tell him to get his fat ass in here.”
Jason walked with bare feet across the cold tile. It was so dark outside. Tim could be hiding anywhere. So help me, if he tries to jump me, I’m introducing Jenna to his head, Jason thought as he slid the door open.
Cool, fresh air washed over him.
“All right, asshole, you can come inside. We’ll share. Hurry up. Giada’s coming back on.”
Tim didn’t reply. It was as quiet as an empty funeral parlor, which was weird. Normally, this time of night in the summer, the chirping of crickets was deafening.
“Tim! Come on, man. I haven’t got all night.”
He heard the bumper music for Giada’s show. “All right, funny guy, enjoy sitting in the yard.”
As he went to grab the door’s latch, something leapt out from the bushes. The shrill scritch of nails scraping against the new brick patio beat a frantic pace. He saw a large shadow loping toward him.
Jason tensed.
That isn’t Tim.
Before it could get too close, Jason did the first thing his instincts told him to do. He swept his arm back and threw the bong as hard as he could at the approaching shadow. He flinched when he heard a wet smack as the bong hit home.
Something yelped, high and agitated.
Jason jumped back into the house, slamming the door shut. He watched the shadow retreat, hopping over the seven-foot wooden fence into his neighbor’s yard.
Tom was still on the couch, mesmerized. “What just happened?” he asked, never taking his eyes from the TV.
Jason pressed his thumbs into his eyes and shook his head. “I have no frigging idea. All I do know is that I just busted Jenna.”
CHAPTER 12
Anita Banks had driven to the Sullivans’ house in a daze. She’d had a hard time falling asleep after a night of too much coffee and catching up on bills. The moment she felt herself drifting off, her phone rang, asking her to come to the scene of a break-in.
It hadn’t made sense at the time.
Now, standing in the ransacked kitchen, she understood why Gray Dalton had requested her. And she was wide awake.
This definitely was not the work of vandals of the bipedal sort. Just looking at the scratches and bite marks in the wood, the smeared prints on the floor, and tufts of fur told her that. Between here and the yard, there was a mélange of paw prints and something else that made everything even more bizarre. In some places, there were cloven hoofprints, like a large, wild boar.
It was impossible. Well, one of many impossibilities.
The paw prints looked too big to belong to any domesticated dog she knew of, and there were slight deformities to the overall structure. Judging by the nicks and gouges in the floor and appliances, these animals had immense and powerful claws. The destruction was on a scale akin to a much larger creature.
The stink of milk mixing with soy sauce and pickle brine made Anita cringe. She looked over at Dalton, who was being questioned by his sergeant as well as most of the Montauk PD, all of them having been rousted from their sleep, just like her. There wasn’t a soul in the house without heavy bags under their eyes.
When she’d heard that Officer Henderson had been dragged off by a large animal, taken right into the ocean only to disappear completely, her stomach dropped.
She stepped gingerly out of the kitchen, glancing at the nervous couple on the couch. Neither had uttered a word since she’d arrived. She’d ask one of the paramedics to check them for shock.
Anita closed her eyes, trying to picture the type of animal that could have done this. She mumbled to herself while she flipped through an assortment of images. “No, not a bear or big cat. Paw structure is way off for that. Dogs? Maybe, but what breed? Some unknown mix, like a wolf-dog? They can get pretty big. But they can’t tear off oven doors or snap thick furniture in half. Those hoofprints just can’t be. Bovines and canines wouldn’t work together. Think, Anita, think.”
Dalton’s light touch on her shoulder made her jump.
“Sorry,” he said. He looked terrible. His hair was a mess and he’d sweat through his uniform. His eyes, they told the entire story. Whatever had happened would stay with him for a very long time. “Do you think I’m right? I mean, this has to be the work of an animal.”
“It is, but I honestly can’t tell you what kind. Nothing makes sense. There are things that look normal, familiar, and others that defy logic. I’m going to take plenty of hair samples as well as the broken glass from the window. There’s blood on some of it. That should tell me more.”
He angled her out of earshot of the Sullivans. He looked desperate, angry. No cop wanted to lose one of their own, especially before their very eyes. Dalton needed a flesh-and-blood bad guy, someone he could pursue, capture and make sure they paid. She wasn’t so sure he was going to get what his every instinct desperately needed.
“Best guess, Anita. What are we dealing with?”
She reached for her ponytail and twiddled the end between her fingers. “Off the record?”
“Completely.”
“Everything I see, it looks like some kind of hybrid. They may give the base appearance of dogs, but in essence, they’re not. It’s like someone raised generations of different breeds, selecting the largest, strongest and most violent to create the next-gen until they ended up with a monster. Think of a pit bull dosed with gamma rays.”
Dalton’s eyebrows went up so high, they were lost in the tangle of hair that had flopped onto his forehead. “Did you just say these are Hulk pit bulls?”
Anita sighed. “I said it’s like that. Now you know why I asked if this would be off the record. If you tell this to anyone, they’ll think I’ve lost it.”
Dalton stared off into the kitchen. She knew his mind was still at the beach, still searching for Henderson. A team of police and firefighters had been sent down to look for him. It must have been hard for Dalton to not be there. “You wouldn’t be the first,” he said.
Man, it was a perfect night for fishing. The sound was calm, the air had cooled from the heat of the day and the moon was all he needed to see by. Dan Hudson was in fisherman’s heaven.
If Jamie wanted to ride his ass about his staying out late with his pals at the Rotary Club a few nights in a row, he damn well wasn’t going to sleep on the couch and beg her forgiveness in the morning. It was better to catch a bucketful of fluke and flounder and enjoy the peace and calm of the evening.
He’d explained they were all putting in extra time for the CF fund-raiser, which was mostly true. But put a room full of guys together with access to liquor long enough and things were bound to get—happy. Since he had the day off tomorrow, he hadn’t felt the need to stop at three beers. By the time he’d realized he needed some time to sober up for the drive home, he was already two hours late.
Dan checked his watch. Almost three in the morning. The salty air did wonders for the early onset of his hangover, keeping his headache from splintering his skull. His Suncruiser rocked lightly. He could see the lights of the boatyard on the shore. When it came to night fishing on his relatively small bay boat, he’d learned the hard way to stick to the sound rather than the ocean. Especially when he’d had a few drinks in him.
Reaching into the Coleman cooler by his feet, he pulled out a Bud and popped the top. Hair of the dog never failed.
He was tempted to turn on the radio and try to catch that Coast to Coast show, the one that talked about aliens and ghosts and government conspiracies. He always got a kick out of that. It was so much more entertaining than the news or sports or another gasbag spouting his political vitriol. But, he didn’t want to spook any fish, so he sat in silence, or at least the degree of silence you could get on the water as it lapped against the hull of the boat.
Dan looked in the white bucket, saw the one flat-bellied fluke he’d snagged minutes after dropping his line. It had stopped flopping.
“Did you warn your buddies after I hooked you?” he said to the still fish.
It had been over an hour without so much as a nibble. This time of night was usually prime. It would be a couple of hours before the party fishing boats hit the water. As far as Dan could tell, it was just him and whatever swam under the dark waters of the sound.
He nearly dropped his rod when the cell phone in his vest pocket rang. A picture of a smiling Jamie popped up on the display. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know she wasn’t smiling now. Dan ran his thumb over the screen, deciding whether to slide it over the answer or ignore icon.
Before he could do either, his rod jerked in his hands. He dropped the phone to prevent the rod from being dragged overboard.
“Dan, where the hell are you?”
Slowly turning the reel, he glanced at the phone on the seat next to him. He must have hit answer. He hadn’t selected speakerphone, so Jamie’s voice was muffled and hard to hear.