Bitten/Drained: The Lauren Westlake Chronicles Volume 1

by Dan O'Brien

  Its face was shadowed, hidden from the world.

  It had begun to fear men, fear their scent and judgment. Werewolf: the word floated through its mind like downed branches in a raging stream. Though there was little life left in its mind: madness, hatred, the hunt. That is what remained.

  Wild hair pulled back from its scalp, long fingers; nails dirty and broken. It stretched the skin down on the table, pressing its dirty hand along the flesh; blood on the hand of the seamster and on the fabric. Its hand reached out and grasped the needle.

  There was no noise in the morning air.

  The trees remained silent in fear of what haunted the shack. It placed the skin on top of its arm. The first time through the blood oozed as the needle attached its trophy to its skin. It used wolf fur, drawn thin like fishing line to seal the wound, to make a quilt of its body: to become a monster. Each time through the flesh drew taut, becoming a part of the map of its descent into madness.

  Soon, it had patched together what had once been Madeline Leftwich’s flesh into its own flesh, a coverlet work of insanity. It sat down on the floor. It looked up at the ceiling and into the gray sky above, waiting for the embrace of night when it would hunt again.

  LAUREN WESTLAKE LOOKED OUT at Locke, Minnesota and grimaced. She felt the slight grip of a hangover: heavy eyes, throbbing mind. The landscape was bleak. The gray skies looked as if they were ready to bury the locals in a distant, forever sleep.

  Pulling her coat around her neck tightly and gripping the edges of her wool cap, she lowered her head into the wind. She recalled the map of the small town. The inn was very close to the cross street where the police station was located.

  She hoped that she was not too late.

  Before, the attacks escalated in quick succession. Where there was one, suddenly there were many until it culminated in a mass murder and then nothing; the balance restored, suburbia recalled.

  The streets were clean, maintained in a way she was not used to. The storefronts were as bleak as the air around her. Stone-faced people, neither smiling nor courteous, watched her with suspicion as she passed. There were few cars; most were parked, only a rundown Chevy passed by. Its sputter could be heard far off in the distance. Lauren passed a coffee shop on her right with For Lease written crudely on a piece of white-backed cardboard.

  The remnants of an auto mechanic shop; an old-time bed and breakfast boarded and rundown: Locke was not a booming place. It suffered as all small towns suffered. Tourism was fickle, even more so when the majority of people were broke and holed up in their shrewd lives.

  The next corner retained the only stop light in all of Locke and it merely blinked red, cautioning the limited traffic to be wary of other drivers. A wind picked up, blowing against her slender frame. She cursed her persistence, her need to understand. Once again, it had driven her to the edge.

  The police station came into view, or rather a stone building devoid of marking except a grouping of black letters that spelled out Locke Police Station. A lone patrol car was parked out front, a frost-covered monstrosity that looked as if it would need to be pushed to start.

  The door was tinted, a strange thing to do in a place with no sunshine. Lauren pulled on the handle hard, grumbling as it was slow to open. The cold was bitter on her face, clawing at her lips and nostrils as she entered the building. The station was a long room cut in half by a plain counter. There was a distant desk and a glass door covered in blinds.

  “Hello,” she spoke with slight irritation in her voice.

  There was some shuffling. For a moment, she had the strange sensation to reach for her gun.

  A woman appeared.

  Huge hair, clear frames, and bright red lipstick announced her. She wore a pantsuit the likes of which would have been appropriate on a femme fatale half her age and size in a soap opera much dated. “How can I help you, hey?” she spoke with what could have been considered a completely different dialect.

  Lauren took a cautious step forward, following the woman as she made her way to a part of the counter equipped with a blank clipboard and a rusted iron hand bell.

  She removed her identification while maintaining eye contact with the visual train wreck that was the receptionist. “Agent Lauren Westlake, I am here about the murder.”

  “The murders?” repeated the woman, the parroting slightly odd.

  Lauren replaced her identification and looked deeper into the station. “Where is the sheriff, Ms…?” Her voice lingered, searching for the woman’s name. They had spoken on the phone the day before, albeit briefly.

  “Mrs. Meadows, if you please. And Sheriff Montgomery is at the crime scene. He will be back after a while. Can I offer you some coffee, hey?”

  Lauren placed her hands on the counter. “Crime scene? I thought the Jane Doe had been removed already and was in the morgue. That is why I am here, to inspect the remains.”

  There seemed to be sudden recognition in the receptionist’s eyes. “Right. You are that nice city gal who called yesterday inquiring about the murder. The murder on the lake.”

  Lauren nodded. “Precisely.”

  The receptionist’s heavily painted lips pursed. She leaned forward as if she were telling a secret. “We did bring her in, but there was another murder. A local. Sad story really. Sheriff Montgomery and the deputy are out there right now.”

  Lauren leaned back.

  Pulling off her wool cap, she allowed her hair to fall free, unrestrained. Despite sleeping off a rather interesting bender, she still looked more the part of prepared city girl than overworked country gal.

  And the receptionist was quick to notice. “Damn girl. You look too good for it to be this cold, hey.”

  Agent Westlake looked at her with an arch of her sculpted eyebrows. Naturally sculpted of course, she was lucky that way. “You said the Sheriff is out at the crime scene?” she asked, her attention only slightly affected by the strange comment.

  The receptionist had already disappeared to the back of the station, where she busied herself making coffee. Lauren followed her along the counter. Mrs. Meadows returned, a coffee mug in each hand. Placing one down in front of Lauren, she cupped hers, snuggling with it really. “Sheriff is out there alright, must have been right after dawn. Poor thing got the call at home.”

  Lauren moved forward as if to speak. Mrs. Meadows looked to the coffee mug and Lauren picked it up with a sigh. “Where did this happen?”

  Mrs. Meadows sat into a comfortable chair, the heavy material of her pant suit making a mockery of her femininity. “Not that far from here, in the woods just the other side of the train station.”

  “I know the area.”

  “Really, I though you just got here.”

  Lauren took a sip of the coffee and grimaced. “Do you have any sugar?” she replied. “I got in early this morning on the train.”

  Mrs. Meadows nodded and made a funny little sound. Pointing to where she had retrieved the coffee, she motioned. “Help yourself, hey. Don’t get many female law types here in Locke. Not much girl talk in the station.”

  Lauren smiled weakly and moved behind the counter.

  “I guess if you consider all the shenanigans of the young boys around here, then there is some discussion about women. But certainly not in the capacity I like to have.”

  Lauren tore open a packet of white sugar and poured it into the mug. Sticking in a long, slender finger, she stirred the hot coffee.

  “So this crime scene, the one near the train station…”

  Mrs. Meadows closed her eyes. Doing so made her appear both fearsome and festive. “Another woman, like I said. This one a local, a bit of a town personality.”

  “A local?”

  “Crazy woman, pardon me saying so. She didn’t have all her marbles, ya know.”

  Lauren searched her mind and recalled distantly the run-in she had with the woman at the train station. Could that be the same woman? Her mind swam slowly as the hangover was proving to be a greater barrier than sh
e had anticipated. “The other woman wasn’t a local? The one from the lake?”

  “No, sugar. That one was a transient, a traveler through our wonderful green, cold country.” She leaned forward. “Maybe even one of our friends to the north, hey.”

  Lauren pondered that.

  The chime at the station rung; every sound crawled in the north. Montgomery entered, the deputy a step behind. They both looked the part of cold, grumpy men who had just come from a gruesome crime scene. “Darlene, any calls? We get anything back on…” He stopped in his tracks as Agent Westlake walked out from behind the counter.

  “Sheriff Montgomery, I presume?” she spoke.

  Montgomery looked at her, his uncertainty worn on his sleeve. “Yes?”

  Lauren removed her identification.

  It was an act to which she had not only grown accustomed, but she had as well begun to enjoy the confused response on men’s faces when they met a female agent. It was empowering and embarrassing in one smooth motion. “I’m Agent Westlake. I called about your Jane Doe yesterday.”

  Montgomery looked at her. He was not used to assertive women in positions of authority. Not confidence in general, as he had seen many women who had found their aggressive nature amidst a bender.

  Lauren waited a moment, watching the sheriff carefully. “I told your receptionist, Mrs. Meadows, that the preliminary report sounded very similar to a case I have been working. I was hoping I would be able to take a look at the body and maybe shadow you and your deputy for a few days, see what I can glean.”

  “Glean?” echoed the deputy, his voice cracking.

  Lauren’s gaze shifted to the tall, young deputy. “To learn by casual observation. I assume you are the good sheriff’s deputy?”

  He nodded, his Adam’s apple bouncing comically.

  Montgomery shook his head. Clicking his tongue, he wiped at his boot absentmindedly. “Shadow? You mean interfere with my investigation. There is no federal jurisdiction on this. I have received…”

  Lauren stepped forward, placing down her mug of lukewarm coffee. “Nothing like that, sheriff. I am here in a personal capacity. There is no formal federal inquiry at this time. I was given a short leash to do some of my own investigation and that is what I intend to do. I am looking simply for some professional courtesy.”

  Montgomery moved back toward his desk.

  The deputy mirrored the movement, an exact carbon copy of the sheriff. Leaning back into his squeaky chair, Montgomery placed his dark boots on the table and thumbed his wedding ring. “I am willing to extend courtesy your way, if you are willing to send some mine.”

  Already there was bartering; already the presence of her badge and authority alone was not sufficient to warrant his respect. She would remedy that before all was said and done.

  “Anything I can do, sheriff. I would like to help with the investigation any way I can.”

  Matthews looked at the large eyes of Agent Westlake and could not help but let the bright, boyish smile creep through like so much oil through cracks. Montgomery watched his deputy and shook his head. “You can begin by telling us why you thought our Jane Doe was a part of a larger investigation.”

  Chapter IV

  The morgue was at the bottom of the only mortuary in the town of Locke. Agent Westlake, Montgomery, and the youthful deputy made their way through the building’s darkened interior, into the bowels of a cold stone structure that could withstand the end of the world.

  Montgomery smiled. “Surprised about our simple morgue, Agent Westlake?”

  “Not in the slightest. It would be ridiculous to have a separate building given how infrequently violent crimes occur in your small alcove of a town. It is efficient in a way.”

  “Well at least some one appreciates…” spoke Collins as they emerged in the wide whitewashed walls of the basement. Collins was wearing her characteristic bee hive, though black butterfly clips held up random, erratic wisps that attempted to free themselves from bondage. “…what I do here.”

  Agent Westlake led the crowd, looking over the walls of silver doors that encased empty chambers where the departed slept in a kind of purgatory before finding a home in the earth or the hearth, as they such desired. Montgomery and the deputy hovered near the table where a white sheet covered the bumpy, uneven terrain of a body.

  “How many homicides?”

  The sheriff and deputy looked over at the agent with mute glimpses. “Homicides, Agent Westlake?”

  Lauren touched the cold metal of the human cabinets. “In Locke or surrounding towns. How many deaths of unnatural causes have you had?”

  Montgomery shrugged.

  “One a year, maybe every two or three.”

  “And now two in 48 hours. Perhaps there is something to that.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Collins, her thick glasses decorated with rings of silver balls interlinked to form a chain, pulled back the sheet that covered the woman. “We still don’t have an identification, but what we do have is cause of death.”

  Montgomery crossed his arms and the deputy scratched his head. Westlake lingered over the body as the sheet revealed what might have once been a woman. The dark hair was pulled back and laid down beside her pale skin like wet carpet. The make-up was reduced to heavy indentions in the skin from prolonged use.

  Her breasts remained a testament to their creation and construction by the hands of man. Lines along her stomach announced more cosmetic alterations. Lauren reached out and touched the pink wound; deep lacerations carved her chest cavity.

  “Did you swab the wound?”

  Collins lowered her head, looking over glasses. “No, we here in the north don’t know nothing about our business. We just put the bodies in boxes up here.”

  Lauren smiled at the woman, chagrinned.

  “My apologies, Dr. Collins.”

  Collins smiled. The use of a formal title allowed everything to be forgotten. “We did a full autopsy, sent out for toxicology and swabbed the wound for particulates. What is it that you are looking for?”

  Lauren placed her hands on her hips. “Whatever did this used a weapon. Knowing the material and construction, we might be able to limit our focus.” The sheriff coughed and Lauren looked down. “Of course, I mean the scope of the sheriff’s investigation. I am merely shadowing.”

  “Couldn’t it have been an animal?” echoed the deputy, his face the very picture of absence of thought. “I mean the wounds look like they could have been from a wolf or bear or something.”

  Lauren looked to Montgomery and he nodded, giving his silent approval. “If it were animal there would be other markings, not just a singular, purposeful wound. A deathblow as it was. Animals rip and drag. And usually a low chest wound would indicate knowledge of anatomy. A predator would have gone for the jugular.”

  Collins replaced the sheet. “We should have the reports back in a couple of weeks.”

  “Couple of weeks?”

  Montgomery intervened. “Things work a bit slow up here. We have to send the reports out. Get processed somewhere else and wait for results.”

  Lauren touched a hand to her mouth in thought, stepping away from the table. “Would it be a terrible insult if I tried to expedite your wait time, sheriff?”

  Hands in pockets, he shrugged. “Not at all, Agent Westlake. I would say that would be a very kind thing to do. Go a long way toward that cooperation and professional courtesy you were looking for.”

  Lauren smiled tightly and withdrew her cell phone from her coat. “I will see what I can do.”

  DOMINIC MCMANUS WALKED THROUGH the old farmhouse filled with barren walls and aged paintings. There was an unsophisticated smell, a sense of the rustic enhanced by the wilderness. Wood planks beneath his feet alternated in sound, creating a symphony of rhythm. The afternoon sun hid behind the gray cloud cover, creating a lining of beer-colored halos that shielded the world from luminance.

  The woods were silent, tall pines and evergreens sentinels against the nigh
t that would come and the day that followed. Dark, surreal paintings were littered about the simple walls depicting creatures roaming the night, dancing a ritual beneath the moon. The living room was home to one wide, strangled rug in desperate need of cleaning.

  Triangles and lines of muted light cascaded onto the antediluvian home. He walked the house: his home. Bare feet touching the ground, he moved with a grace unbecoming for a man of his considerable size. Nearly six feet, his wide shoulders were marked with long, thin scars of memories past. His chest was a mat of tight black hair that made an artistic triangle.

  Sweat dripped down off of him, following the contours of his strong shoulders and slender waist. His shirt was draped over one of two uncomfortable-looking beige chairs that looked as if they had been left in the rain for a century.

  His dark hair touched his shoulders, unrestrained.

  “Friday,” he whispered.

  A Labrador––the sleek color of night––bounded into the room. He knelt, running his hands across the side of the dog in broad strokes. “Good girl,” he whispered, allowing the dog to nuzzle his lightly bearded face. She was his sole companion by choice.

  Standing again, he walked to the single oak table at the center of the room, grabbing his shirt as he walked by. He pulled it over his shoulders and sat into one of the odd-looking chairs that surrounded the table, reaching down again to attend to his friend.

  The house was a silent reminder of a past forgotten. He had come to Locke for simple reasons: a life unfinished. There were ghosts of the past haunting the land. That haunted him still. Each night was a journey, a remembrance.

  His kitchen was clean; no dishes in the sink. There were none of the usual signs of a bachelor. Bowls of fresh fruit, some spilled out past the rims covered the counter. There was no refrigerator, no stove. A heavy, off-white freezer lay on its side, humming softly. There was a heavy wood stove, a cast-iron pot setting atop the warm, burning embers inside. A thin string with a white packet hung from it: tea.