CLAN

by Harry Shannon

  The bartender was one of those surfer types with perfect white teeth and spiked blond hair. He leaned down, eyed the empty wallet and started to wipe up the bar. "Maybe you've had enough, Pops."

  Screw you, scumbag, Case tried to talk but the words came out muffled. He heard a door open with a long, protracted haunted house squeak. He turned around.

  His wife and daughter were coming out of the ladies room. Their faces looked oddly misshapen, different somehow. And then it struck Case that the bullets had compressed their pretty skulls into misshapen, lumpy masks…

  "God!"

  Case sat up on the couch. His chest had tightened unmercifully and his heart was pounding on the bars of his ribcage with a ball-peen hammer. He remembered the sight and smell of those eviscerated bodies in the park. His gorge rose. Case had seen his share of nasty crime scenes while with LAPD, but nothing quite like this animal attack, by far the most horrific slaughter he'd ever witnessed. Somehow the rural setting made it seem all the more surreal.

  Joe Case yawned and looked around. The shades were all drawn and the motel room was dark. He rubbed his eyes and groped for his watch. He and Kelly had been physically and emotionally exhausted. They had slept for far too long, in fact until just after two in the afternoon. He fingered the scars on his stomach and slipped into a t-shirt.

  "Kelly?"

  Case went over to the window and grabbed the string hanging down from the rod. He closed his eyes and opened the curtains. The light hurt anyway.

  A bit louder: "Kelly? Get up!"

  A muffled groan floated in from the black bedroom. "Okay, okay."

  The room went bright, began to heat up. After a few moments, Kelly emerged from the gloom in a white bra and panties. Case was busy making coffee but noticed that one hand was cupped over her crotch. And that her nipples were visible. She squinted and sheltered her face from the sunlight. "Damn, that's bright."

  "Tell me about it."

  Kelly came into the kitchen. Her voice was still fuzzy from slumber. "Case, did that really happen? I had nightmares all night."

  "Me, too," he said. "It really happened. Sit. I'll pour you some coffee."

  Kelly slipped her lower body under the kitchen table, out of his sight. She hugged her arms over her breasts. Once in a while she would risk exposure to swallow some caffeine. Case ordered himself to stop leering. Then disobeyed orders.

  "I could have slept all day."

  "Me, too. But we need to get busy before the trail gets too cold."

  "You mean Selma and Bobby."

  "Yeah, that trail."

  "Case, this gets scarier by the minute. Please tell me something—what the hell happened last night?"

  "I don't know." He covered his mouth and coughed. Everything still smelled and tasted like VapoRub. "I think there's some strange kind of animal involved."

  Kelly made a face. "Well, duh!"

  "I mean not just a pack of wild dogs or something," Case said. His cheeks were red. This girl got to him too easily. For reasons Joe Case couldn't have explained yet, that scared him.

  "What else could do something like that? Rip a human being apart that way?"

  "In turns out Doc Cherry has been tracking a beast that's been killing off livestock," Case said. "It's been around for at least a couple of years."

  "What does she think it is?"

  "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

  "Try me." Kelly rubbed her face and yawned. Her hair was tousled and she looked way too sexy. She frowned. "What I don't get is how any of this fits into whatever happened to your brother-in-law and Selma."

  "Maybe it doesn't."

  "That's a lot of dying in a small town in a couple of days, Case. It seems a little extreme to call it a coincidence."

  "I don't see how they're connected, since that motel room was scrubbed clean. I've never known of an animal that can do that. And besides, nobody has even mentioned seeing them."

  "But you said they were registered."

  "Yeah," Case said. "And it seems likely one or both of them got murdered sometime after that. But Jennifer apparently saw no reason to remove their names from her registry."

  "So she probably wasn't involved."

  "Not unless she's a lot dumber than she looks."

  Kelly winked. "Oh, you like the purple hair, pierced thing, huh?"

  Is she flirting with me? "No, doesn't do a thing for me, actually. I don't think there's anything exciting about driving needles through sensitive flesh."

  "Me neither." She finished her cup and held it out for a refill. Case accommodated. "So what do we do now?"

  "I'm going to go ask her some questions," Case said. "Then maybe she'll come with me and we can search the room more thoroughly. I don't see how the money could still be in the office safe or something, but who knows."

  "Would she just give it to you?"

  Case scowled. "Ma'am, I'm an officer of the law."

  "Okay," Kelly said. She waved her hands in the air as if surrendering, managed a vague smile. "What do you want me to do?"

  Case finished his coffee, tucked the .38 into his belt under the t-shirt. He pondered for a bit. "The truth is that I'd rather you just wait right here. That way I know where you are. Would you mind?"

  Kelly hugged a pillow. "I guess not. I can watch television or something."

  "There's a television?"

  "In the bedroom, on the bureau. It's a piece of junk."

  "Oh. Well, watch some soap operas."

  "Sexist."

  "Okay, PBS then. I'll be right back."

  Kelly watched him go. She couldn't help but notice the strength in his legs when he bounded down the steps and out into the courtyard. The screen slammed shut with a bang that made her jump.

  Kelly closed and locked the door, then went to the bathroom to take a shower. It was a brief shower, because for some reason that nightmarish scene from Psycho kept running through her mind.

  Afterwards, she sat on the edge of the bed with one towel around her body and the other around her wet hair. The remote control was nowhere to be found. Kelly finally turned on the small television manually and located CNN. Despite modern technology, the television took forever to warm up and the picture was faint and splotchy.

  The stock market had started fluctuating again and some new Arab terrorist had been captured in Manila. The President was involved in some kind of scandal due to an underling, and the administration had gone on the defensive trying to deny guilt. Same world, different players.

  Kelly put new underwear on. She slipped into some jeans and a blouse, went into the bathroom to get her hair dryer and brought it back out into the bedroom. The outlet was near the night table, so she could only half-watch the television in the mirror and couldn't hear it at all. She rubbed her head with the towel. She paused and was surprised to find herself thinking about Case. There was something bruised about him; something sad that appealed to her instinct to nurture. There was also a raw, tough edge that both excited and frightened her. All in all, a pretty cool—and potent—combination.

  The bearded guy on CNN was droning on about some kind of demonstration in San Francisco. There was always some kind of demonstration going on in San Francisco. Kelly went back to her hair.

  When she looked up again she saw a picture of her boss. She blinked in surprise, but then assumed the story must be about the festival in Cannes. That's when she noticed that under his name were dates, the last being today. She dropped the hair dryer; it unplugged itself and fell silent.

  "…was found murdered in his hotel room in France. Silverman, who had become famous for having produced a number of blockbuster films about a decade ago, was fifty-nine years old. A source revealed that his career had recently fallen on hard times, but he had high hopes for a comeback with his new film Die Again.

  Kelly sagged and leaned against the bureau. My God, Bud. I'm so sorry. The announcer continued. "The production was rumored to have been experiencing some serious financial difficulties
, but French police have thus far refused to speculate as to whether or not his business life may have contributed to his untimely death. Once again, veteran Hollywood producer Bud Silverman was found dead in his hotel suite in Cannes, France today. He had been tortured and then shot, execution style, in the back of the head. Silverman had also been under investigation by the Internal Revenue Service for tax evasion and local gossip columns are buzzing about a possible connection between his murder and a sizable debt owed to the Russian Mob, but at this point that's all just idle speculation. No further details are available."

  The announcer switched to a retrospective of Bud's career and showed clips from a few of his early films, but Kelly McCammon didn't hear another word. She sat on the edge of the bed, tasting vomit. She shivered although the day was warm. When the television began to annoy her, she switched it off. Kelly searched through her purse for her cell phone. She dialed, listened. Would it work from here in town? The phone rang twice and then something clicked.

  "Shakira?" But her friend's machine had answered. She waited impatiently through the outgoing message. Finally, the beep arrived.

  "Shakira, it's me, Kelly, are you there?"

  Kelly felt desperate to talk to someone in the business. Bud was a pig, but he didn't deserve to die like that—hell, nobody did. She was clearly in even more trouble than before, with nowhere to turn for help. And if Joe Case did help her find the money, how could he broker a deal without Bud alive to tell him who to talk to!

  Bud was dead.

  Besides that, he was a real son of a bitch to have gotten her mixed up in this. But Kelly was freaking out. Because also lurking in the back of her mind was the sad fact that she was also now out of a job in the most cutthroat town in the world.

  The phone. She needed to leave a message.

  "I just heard about Bud," she said, nervously. "I'm out of town for a while, up in the middle of nowhere. I'm not even registered under my own name. I'll explain later. I'll try to call you tomorrow, or you may hear from a guy named Joe Case. If you do, you can trust him. He can go into my apartment or whatever. Take care." She broke the connection.

  A brief sob erupted from her lungs. She dialed again. "Mom? It's me. Just wanted you to know I'll be traveling, maybe for quite a while, so don't worry if you don't hear from me. I'll be in touch again soon, okay? Love you."

  Desperate for distraction, she went into the living room, found some rock and roll on a radio station and cranked up the volume. She tried dancing around a bit to blow off some steam, but every shadow made her jump. Kelly left the music playing and went back into the bedroom.

  What a way to die.

  Suddenly the idea of sitting alone in the motel room made her skin crawl. Kelly found the hair dryer. She finished using it, put it away and went into the bathroom to put on some basic make-up.

  Her mind kept spinning in hamster-wheel circles: He must have borrowed mob money to finish the movie and promised it to them by a certain date, then got arrogant and decided to go to France and have me deliver it—or more likely he thought they would hurt him if he showed up, because it wasn't the full amount he owed them, so that royal jerk threw me to the wolves…

  She applied her lipstick: But I gave the package to Selma, and she called her boyfriend and they ran off with it… But Silverman didn't know that, so when somebody came to torture him he didn't even know what had happened… But he would have given them MY name, all he knew, which is why they are after me now…But Case says someone apparently murdered Selma and her boyfriend, so the money is gone…

  Kelly brushed her hair hard enough to hurt herself: So now we're up here in the boonies and some weird creature is running around killing tourists, but that doesn't explain who cleaned their damned motel room afterwards. She put down the brush and stared at her reflection.

  "Well, it all boils down to this, Kelly. Your attitude problem has gotten you into some really deep shit."

  A chill ran up her spine like a row of ants. And you were an idiot just now to have left a message.

  She fought back tears. In total frustration, she threw the phone against the wall. It shattered into several pieces. Embarrassed, Kelly stuffed what was left of the cell phone in her purse and went back out into the living room. The radio was now blaring out an old Bruce Springsteen song, so Kelly was only vaguely aware of a distant rumbling sound coming from the south, near the picnic grounds. The low pounding of the bass drum seemed to time itself to her own feverish pulse.

  She stuffed her purse under a couch cushion and went out onto the porch to be closer to the sunshine. Large shapes moved in the nearby trees. Kelly assumed they were the shadows of moving branches.

  Kelly could see the motel office from this point, but the drapes were closed. Case had to be in there, talking to that girl. He had asked her to stay put. Should she risk interrupting them to let him know that Bud had been murdered in France? It had to be some kind of criminal organization. Because whoever these people were, they had the power to reach halfway around the planet within a day or two.

  She sat on the wooden bench and hunched forward, chin in hands. She sighed and stared at the motel office praying for something to change. The rock music was still streaming out from the open doorway. Meanwhile, the shapes moved among the trees and approached quietly through the carpet of pine needles.

  She did not hear them until the moment they fell upon her.

  20

  "Isn't this terrible?"

  Jennifer Fowler's brown eyes were red and puffy, as if she'd been crying. Either she was genuinely upset, or she was a damned good actress. Although his first instinct was to trust her, Case ran a few different approaches through his mind. He settled on telling her a partial truth. "Yes, it is. We stayed up most of the night helping Sheriff Whitley clean up the…mess. Has anything like this ever happened before?"

  "Nothing like this." Jennifer Fowler shook her head. "This is a quiet little town. So quiet I've been dying to get out of here for years." She shuddered. "I can't believe what was done to those poor people."

  Case motioned to the coffee pot and Jennifer gathered herself enough to pour. He added his own creamer and a lot of sugar. He needed the lift. "Jennifer, how long have you been working here?"

  She blew her nose. "I inherited the place from my parents, Mr. Case."

  "Joe."

  "Okay. In other words, Joe, I've worked here almost all my life. I've been living in the back room here since I was a teenager."

  "How long have your parents been gone?"

  Case sat down on the arm of the couch. Jennifer moved around from behind the counter, trailing one hand behind her like someone prepared to run. "Why are you asking me so many questions?"

  He lifted his shirt, showed her the gun. "I'm a cop." He had the fake badge in his pocket but she did not ask to see it.

  Case watched her face. Jennifer tried to hide it, but her pupils dilated. She looked like she'd been punched in the stomach. She swayed slightly and then went to a battered green armchair and sat down. A small puff of dust acknowledged her arrival. "I guess I figured something like this would happen."

  "Always does." Case said coolly, as if he knew something, and then left her to twist in the wind.

  Jennifer put her face in her hands. Her words were so muffled that at first he didn't understand them. "Do you have a warrant?"

  He leaned forward, elbows to knees. "Do I need one?"

  "It's the law, isn't it?"

  "Jennifer, look. It's like this. If you make me go back to a judge and hassle him for a warrant all hell will break loose. The Prosecutor will probably say you're an accessory after the fact, or even more involved than that, all because you refused to cooperate right out of the gate. Are you following me?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Her nose was red and tears came to her eyes. Surprisingly, Case felt like a complete macho jerk. Getting soft. "But if you just talk to me openly from the beginning, they will know you weren't involved and I'm sure I can probably g
et them to cut you an awful lot of slack. Now, how do you want to play it?"

  "I don't." Jennifer Fowler stuck out her trembling chin. "I want to talk to a lawyer."

  Case forced an exasperated sigh. He gave her a lingering look of disdain. "I feel sorry for you, kid. Good luck." He got to his feet and started for the door. The bluff worked.

  "Wait a minute, Mr. Case."

  He turned. "Detective, actually."

  Jennifer wrung her hands. "I can't tell you everything, I just can't. I'm not allowed to. But maybe I can answer some questions and help you out that way…?"

  Figuring he'd better take what he could get, Case returned to the couch and sat down. He tested her. "I need to know if two people checked in here night before last," he said. "One was Bobby Lawford, a smooth guy in his forties, and the other a woman named Selma Talbot. But they probably would have signed in as a couple and used a different last name." He described them with a bit more detail.

  Jennifer was nodding eagerly before he finished. "They were here, I remember."

  "Which room did you give them?"

  "Number two. I can show you the guest book."

  "Would you, please? Thanks."

  He remained seated while Jennifer went behind the counter, opened the drawer and returned with the book. She opened it to the correct page and pointed. Case pretended to absorb the information. He produced snapshots of Bobby and Selma and showed them to her to be certain.

  "That's them, Detective Case."

  "So. Tell me everything you remember."

  She did a blow-by-blow, and the descriptions would have stood up in court; including the inevitable racy remark from Bobby. She said they had brought in some luggage. They'd had two suitcases and a metal briefcase; at least, that was all she could remember.