The Franklins had five children. Shane was the oldest; his younger brother, Joseph was fifteen, followed by thirteen-year-old Marshal, nine year old Sarah, seven year old Autumn, and two year old Amber. Joseph was my first choice. But I didn’t want to talk with him in the house. First rule of interrogation; remove the suspect from his comfort zone.
“Are you and Shane close?” We were sitting in my Escalade, thunder rumbling overhead.
“He’s my brother.” Joseph stood as tall as me, but thin, maybe a hundred and forty pounds, with sandy, blond hair that touched the collar of his Silver Chair t-shirt. He had clean features, a straight even nose, innocent eyes. He reminded me of a young Jim Halpert from the TV show The Office, before he got all buff and hairy for the movie 13 Hours.
“Sometimes brothers don’t get along.”
“We do.”
“Do you know anything about his disappearance?” None of the children knew about his death yet. A peel of thunder cracked above us. Joseph ducked, then flushed red as he realized I was watching him.
He looked away. “No, I don’t know anything.”
“What are his hobbies?”
“Hockey, computers, stuff like that.
“The two of you play on the same hockey team?”
He shook his head. “He’s older, better. He plays AA Midgets. I’m on an in-house team.”
“What about school?”
“We take some classes together, down at DU.”
“You take college courses?” He still hadn’t looked back at me.
“Computer programming, networking, stuff like that. I get high school and college credit at the same time.”
“Who does he hang around with at school?”
“Nobody. Just me.”
“Does he have a girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Have you seen anyone strange hanging around him? Teachers or janitors or older students showing an unusual interest?”
“I don’t think so. We just go to school and come home. I still do the rest of my classes at the high school.”
“Do Shane or you ever look at anything… bad, on the Internet?”
“Bad? You mean porn?”
“Yeah, yeah that’s what I mean.”
“In our house?” he laughed. “Are you kidding? My dad’s got filters on the filters. You couldn’t get a Sport’s Illustrated Swimsuit edition into our house.”
“What about at school or the library?” Public libraries have loads of computers with Internet access and the facilitators routinely refuse to add blocking filters or restrict usage to anyone at any age.
“We’re not into that. In case you haven’t noticed, my family’s pretty religious.”
“Yes, I noticed, but temptation… temptation is everywhere these days, especially for young men. If there is anything, I have to know. I won’t tell your parents.”
“Nah, there’s nothing like that, man.”
“Drugs?”
“Nothing.”
“Then where is your brother?”
He brushed a hand through his hair. “He was under a lot of pressure. School, grades, what he was going to do for a career after school. Living with Mom and Dad and four brothers and sisters. Maybe he just split for awhile to chill out.”
I reached across, put a hand on his shoulder, let what I felt bleed through to my eyes. “That’s not it, Joseph. He didn’t run away.”
“He didn’t?”
“No. This is a bad situation. Very bad.” I was hair’s breadth from telling him. But that was up to his mother to do when she was ready. “It’s dangerous… for all of you. So if you know something, please, tell me.”
He looked at me, squinted as if taking my measure. His eyebrows drew down and again I was struck by his resemblance to John Krasinski. He took in a breath as if he were going to tell me something, but a splash of light, followed instantly by a massive crack of thunder, blasted directly overhead. He jumped, his eyes squeezing shut and then open, fast and afraid. His head jerked to the side, his heart beating so hard I could see it pumping through the veins of his neck. The moment was lost.
“I don’t know anything.”
I nodded. “Do you have a cell phone?”
“Yeah, sure.”
I handed him one of my coins. “If you think of anything — anything — give me a call.”
He took the coin, hefted it in his hand. “Yeah, okay.”
I took my hand away. “You better get back inside, your Mom’s going to need you.” As he opened the door, another flash of lightning reflected off the clouds, accompanied by an ear splitting crash of thunder. Joseph turned back to me, hunching his shoulders and ducking as though he thought God was throwing bolts of lightning at him. He closed the door and ran for his aunt’s house as another torrent of rain began to fall.
19
I drove back to my office and picked up Max. By the time I got home it was full dark. The rain had passed and I could see a few stars poking through the clouds.
The house was dark and uninviting. I put on some lights, played with Pilgrim for a few minutes and started up the computer. I was beat and needed some rest, but there was no time for that now. I had five days.
Opening my e-mail I saw there were seventeen spams that slipped past my junk dumper and twelve messages from friends.
I clicked off my e-mail and googled flash drives. I read through several useless blurbs. No joy there. I tried thumb dot drives, coming up empty. Next I typed in limousine companies, Colorado, and was rewarded with over fifty pages of listings. Hmm, Maybe Colorado is the new Hollywood. I entered the name my buddy Andy, from Denver, had given me, Ballard’s Rentals, and found their webpage, complete with a one-eight-hundred number.
I gave them a call.
“Ballard’s Rentals, I’m Kendra, may I help you?” Her voice reminded me of Sally Field’s when she played Sister Bertrille on The Flying Nun. The sixties TV show was based on the book The Fifteenth Pelican, by Tere Rios, but I think Sally did it one better.
“Well, Kendra, I hope so. I was driving some stuff to the dump and I forgot to cover the truck bed with a tarp. Long story short, some things fell off and I think they might have damaged the limousine’s windshield that was behind me. I would have stopped but the limo pulled off on an exit and by the time I got around it was gone. I was able to get the car’s plate though and it turns out to be one of yours. I’d like to make restitution if that’s possible.”
“Oh, that’s really kewl of you. When did this happen?”
“Earlier today. The plate was NNL-7421.”
“Let me check the maintenance logs real quick, can you hold?”
“Sure.”
Canned music played over the line. I took the opportunity to punch in a website that specializes in soldiers for hire. Under requested requirements I keyed in, military and governmental experience. A list of two hundred and thirty names flashed onto the screen. Hmmm. I added, thirty to forty-five years old. That took it down to a hundred and ten. Progress. I clicked on profiles and started reading. Several of the potential clients had pictures, some did not. I zipped through the ones with photos but didn’t find Mr. Spock. I resumed reading.
“Sir?” Sister Bertrille was back on the line.
“Yes, I’m here.”
“We do show one of our vehicles with that plate as having a cracked windshield. It’s a regular size, not a stretch. But the log says it happened last month.”
“Really? I’m sure the stuff that fell out of my truck hit it,” I said. “Who do you have it rented to?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I can’t give out client information, sir.
“No, of course not, I wouldn’t want you to. I just want to be able to take a look at the car to see if I caused the damage or not. If you tell me where the limousine is, I’ll swing by and take a look.”
“They already returned it. It’s here on the lot. Do you have our address?”
“Yes, I do. How late will you be open?”
/> “Until ten o’clock, sir.”
I looked at my watch, nine-fifty; no way I could make it. “I’ll stop by tomorrow. Thank you for your help, Kendra.” I had the car. Next step was to see if they left any evidence. That plus find out who rented it.
Finishing the soldier for hire list, none of them matched Mr. Spock or the other Men In Black I had seen, I pushed away from my computer and rubbed my eyes. Hey, maybe Spock was really Tommy Lee Jones in disguise.
I took out the three driver’s licenses I’d kept from the skater punks who tried to nab me and checked their home addresses. All were local.
I fed Pilgrim, threw a steak on the gas grill for myself, and made a salad with lettuce, tomato, cucumber, and thousand-island dressing. I found some rolls in the pantry and took two out. They didn’t smell moldy, but they were a little stale. I nuked them for about twenty seconds and presto, fresh again. Modern technology. Captain Kirk would be proud. While eating, I read another two chapters of the newest Clancy novel (he’s long since dead but the books they just keep a coming). I cleaned my dishes, looked at the time — ten-twenty — told Pilgrim to stay, went to my car, called Max, and started down the long, winding road that is my driveway. I got on C-470, southbound, which quickly turned east. I was headed toward Aurora, that’s where Pimple Face lives.
Forty minutes later I pulled up across from his house. The streets were pretty much deserted except for the occasional clot of street punks that prowled the alleys and dark corners. This is the nasty part of town where hyenas run in packs, there’s safety in numbers, and woe to the poor drunk or lost tourist who stumbles across their path.
I spied the landscape, making a mental picture, then headed back home. Sleep was rare for me these days, what with the dreams coming as they did, but I had a long day ahead of me so I would have to chance it.
I parked in the garage atop my mountain at one-thirty-seven in the morning and was under the covers of my bed by two. Sleep took its time in coming, but when it did, it didn’t come alone, the dreams came with it.
20
In my dream they were alive. They’re always alive in my dreams — at first. They’ve come every night for the past three months. I’m afraid they will drive me crazy. Maybe they will. Maybe they already had.
We were at Clement Park, Jolene and I sitting on a bench, the sun high and gently bright, shining down on the perfect family huddled within its penumbra. My three-year old daughter, Marla, was soaking wet and laughing at the thin jets of water that shot from the fountain holes punched in the concrete.
“Daddy, watch me,” she said in her sweet, little girl’s voice, the end of “watch” slightly lisped. And I wanted to watch her, but at the same time I couldn’t bear to pull my eyes away from my wife’s face. She was beautiful, and it had been so long.
I wanted to tell her how much I missed them.
Somewhere close, a radio played CCR singing Bad Moon on the Rise. I felt the pain in my throat, like a scorpion’s sting, bright and hot.
I couldn’t speak. The song played louder.
“Daddy save me.”
I dragged my eyes from Jolene’s face, tears running down my cheeks. Please, Lord, no, not again.
The patterned jets of water from the fountains shot out of their holes, only the water burned red, the color of blood. They blasted up and over, covering Marla, drenching her in scarlet. I tried to move, to get to my feet, anything, but the pain exploded into numbness, racing through my arms and down my legs.
Credence blared; singing that they hoped I had my things together. But under the words and music I could hear just a ghostly trace of The Beetles song “Across the Universe”, singing about how their world would never change”. The sound of it made my blood run cold.
I heard the horrible carnage of contorting metal, shattering glass.
Marla danced beneath the crimson streams, her smiling baby’s teeth stained in the color of violence. I had to get her out of there before…
The numbness was all consuming. It stole my strength, my will, my soul.
“Daddy…”
I looked to Jolene, but she was gone. The jets of blood changed to twisting tendrils of fire. I saw Marla’s hair crisp.
“DADDY?”
I screamed, ran for her, caught her up by the shoulders. But it was no longer my Marla. The dead thing in my hands was Lisa Franklin’s daughter, Amber. I awoke, my lungs on fire. The mixture of songs still rolling sickly in my head.
I dropped into my pillow, closed my eyes, and cried until I fell back to sleep.
21
Max
Max heard the Alpha cry out. He was up and moving before the sound faded. At the door to the Alpha’s room he paused. There were no more cries of alarm, just a quiet sobbing that grated on Max’s nerves.
It sounded like weakness.
He sensed no danger here. Max turned and padded to the doggy door that led to the garage. A twin of the pet door was cut into a sidewall of the garage. Max passed through silently and breathed deeply of the cool night air. A thousand scents hit him: Larkspur, Geranium, Field Aster, Gambel oak, pinon-juniper, mountain-mahogany, sagebrush, squirrel, rabbit, fox, prairie dog and something… just a hint… here and gone and back again. Wolf?
Running to the top of a nearby hill Max stuck his nose high taking in everything the wind brought his way. He caught it again… his lip curling involuntarily… not wolf, but something… something very close.
Max sprinted to the rise of the next hill, a raging desire to hunt, find and kill, burning through him. The scent was so like that of the Great Gray Wolf it was driving him mad. He turned and turned again, searching, scenting, willing the breeze to bring the spore to him so that he could lock on and find his prey.
There it was, suddenly, as clear as a lighted path, pointing him forward so powerfully he could close his eyes and follow the trail on scent alone.
He moved at full speed now, the trees and brush mere blurs of shadow and light as he ran beneath the moon’s pale and bloated glow. He passed a family of raccoons and a small herd of elk, ignoring them as the coons hunched down and the elk stamped about on nervous hooves. To Max there was one scent in all the world now and he locked onto it with all his focus, all his thought.
A great horned owl soared overhead, its massive wings keeping pace with him as he ran. The bird was unimportant. If it got in his way he would kill it. Nothing would stop him from finding this scent so like his hated enemy. He crested a hill, leapt down its steep side, rocks cascading behind him, reached bottom and dug in to climb out the far side. He bounded up and over, and there stretched a flat expanse of maybe seventy yards and another dip, this one smaller, and at the bottom — there — yes there — was the target. Not the gray wolf — not a wolf at all.
A coyote.
Larger than Max, a male with thick gray hair and eyes that glowed in the moon’s light. It stood, eating. Its chest broad, legs long and lank, its muzzle grimed in blood as it tore at the dead antelope beneath it.
Max stopped twenty yards away, his vision hardly hindered by the low light. Part of Max knew this was not his enemy. Not the Gray Wolf that killed his parents and his siblings. Yes, part of him understood, part of him knew. But his rage overshadowed the knowledge, blinded his reasoning.
The coyote looked up and locked in on Max. Its lips curled and he snarled a warning to stay away, that the kill was his. Max saw the twisting scars that marred the animal’s side and snout, testament to a life spent in battle. The fact that it was still alive was evidence of its prowess and effectiveness as a warrior. It snarled again, this time a challenge, and bunched its shoulders ready to fight.
Whatever measure of control Max might have had vanished in that instant and he became the machine that nature and man forged him to be. He charged, his speed blinding, his body a fluid work of perfection. His fury a coiled spring of hatred knotted into a mass of compacted steel-like force exploding out at the animal before him.
They collided in midair,
the impact like a clap of thunder. It jarred Max to his core. He hit the ground on his side — spun — found his feet and saw the coyote had done the same. Max charged again, but his opponent staggered before he reached him, the first blow having shattered three of his ribs. The coyote almost collapsed, and then Max struck… teeth flashing… blood spraying… and it was over.
Once the battle lust drained, Max felt unsatisfied. It was not the Gray Wolf and no substitution could suffice. He made his way back to the house, his chest sore from where the two animals made contact. He felt nothing for the dead coyote, it would have taken his life if it had been capable, only regret that it was not his intended victim.
Inside the house Pilgrim slept soundly as Max stood over him. Max knew that Pilgrim could never have entered the house to stand over him as he did now. Max could have killed him with no effort.
Pilgrim was weak.
He went to the Alpha’s room. The door was open.
Max went to the bed, hopped up onto it soundlessly and stood over the Alpha just as he had Pilgrim. The Alpha lay on his back, his throat openly exposed. Max’s heart beat faster in his chest. A touch of the battle lust he felt earlier tingled within him. He was standing taller than the Alpha. Standing over him. In the animal kingdom this was a symbol of dominance, a stance of authority. All he would have to do would be to lunge forward; one bite and it would be over, quicker even than with the coyote. He bent closer, his eyes boring into the closed lids of the sleeping man, daring him to awaken, to challenge him. He breathed in the man’s scent, taking it deep into his lungs, filling his senses with the essence of his being. He could detect nothing different, nothing special about the Alpha. Why should he fear him? What was it that made him feel… inferior?
A flare of anger sparked at the thought and his lip curled. The big muscles of his shoulders snapped taught and his head dipped low, his teeth inches from the Alpha’s flesh. His eyes focused on the line to the side of the Alpha’s throat where the blood ran so close to the surface that Max could feel its pulsing heat. He moved — slowly — closer — his eyes instinctively going back to the man’s eyes.
Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay Page 9