Beneath the Bones

by Tim Waggoner

  Dale was about to ask how much Sadie was going to charge him today when she learned forward, her eye shining.

  “You saw it, didn’t you? I was up on dock, watching.”

  Dale reached out and took hold of his mug. It was still hot enough to hurt his hand, but he didn’t let go. He was tempted to lie to Sadie, to feed into her obsession to keep her in a cooperative mood. But the desperate hope in her eyes forced him to tell the truth.

  “I didn’t see anything, Sadie. I thought I felt something watching me, but I’m sure it was just my imagination.”

  She slammed her hand down on the table so hard the noise made him jump, and he splashed burning-hot coffee onto his hand.

  “I knew it! You did see it!”

  Dale didn’t see any point in correcting her, so he said nothing. He knew from experience that he was going to have to let this play out before he could have a productive conversation with her.

  “It’s always there, on the shore, watching, waiting. Doesn’t matter where I drop anchor. The middle of the lake, west end, east end, north or south. It follows me.”

  She took a great gulp of her coffee this time, and Dale wondered if she hadn’t opened her throat wide and poured the hot black stuff straight down into her stomach.

  “Truth to tell, I’ve never seen it up close. Couldn’t even tell you exactly what it is. Jeffrey saw it, though. Close as you could get.”

  Despite his decision to let her talk, Dale couldn’t remain silent while she ran through the whole morbid story.

  “No one knows for sure what happened to Jeffrey.”

  She scowled. “That’s what Sheriff Manchester said. No body, no crime, right?” Her voice was bitter, and despite the delusion she lived with, he couldn’t blame her.

  “Not necessarily. But just because Jeffrey disappeared is no reason to believe he was killed by some kind of … monster.”

  “Don’t you patronize me, Dale Ramsey.” She finished the last of her coffee, then stood and went over to the sink. As she rinsed her mug out, she said, “You’ve lived in this goddamned place long enough to know better.”

  Dale opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it. She was right. He decided to shut up for real this time and just listen, even though he’d heard the story before. He wondered how many other clients of hers had sat her at this table, a mug of blazing-hot coffee on front of them, listening to Sadie recited the same tale. He wondered if she told it the same way word for word every time.

  Sadie took a sponge from the counter, squirted a glob of dishwasher liquid on it, and began washing the mug.

  “Jeffrey liked to hunt. He wasn’t a fanatic about it or anything. He didn’t get his kills stuffed and mounted, didn’t go around bragging about all the animals he’d shot. For him, hunting was a chance to spend some time outdoors, getting in touch with his primal side, you know?”

  The mug had to be clean now, cleaner than clean, but Sadie continued washing it.

  “One afternoon he was out in Mare’s Nest Woods. It was November, just before Thanksgiving. He was out for deer, but while the woods were usually thick with them, he hadn’t seen one all day. He was about to give up and come on home, when he heard something moving in the brush. He was usually a cautious hunter, always made sure of what he was shooting at before pulling the trigger. But it had been a long, disappointing day and he was tired, frustrated, and jumpy. Without thinking, he pointed his rifle in the direction of the noise and fired. He waited for the last echo of the gunshot to die away before going forward to check and see if he’d hit anything — or anyone. In the back of his mind was the fear that because he hadn’t waited to visually verify his target, he might’ve shot another hunter.”

  She put the sponge down, rinsed the mug again, and this time put it in the dish rack to dry. She returned to the table and sat down once more. She eyed Dale’s mug, which he still held but hadn’t drank out of.

  “You going to drink that or just sit there and fondle it?”

  He pushed the mug toward her, and she lifted it to her lips and drained half of it in a single gulp. Then she continued.

  “As Jeffrey walked forward, rifle held at the ready, he listened hard for any sound … wounded animal thrashing, a person moaning in pain, but he heard nothing. He was beginning to think he hadn’t heard anything in the first place, that he was so tired he’d shot at nothing but some bushes. But then something came bursting through the brush toward him. It moved so fast that Jeffrey didn’t get a good look at it. He saw black fur, four legs, a snout, sharp teeth, and eyes … he said the eyes were the worst, because they looked so human. And he saw blood, lots of it, smeared all over the thing’s side where Jeffrey’s bullet had struck. The thing slammed into Jeffrey’s side as it ran past, hitting him so hard that he spun halfway around before falling to the ground. The thing kept on going, and it quickly vanished into the woods.

  “Jeffrey sat up and checked his side, afraid the animal — whatever it was — had bit, clawed, or gored him as it ran past. He was banged up pretty good. You should’ve seen the bruises on him a couple days later, but he wasn’t bleeding. He’d dropped his rifle when he fell, and he grabbed hold of it then, just in case the animal decided to come back and get even. But it didn’t return.

  “Eventually Jeffrey got back on his feet, sore as hell and twice as scared, but he was alive, and he figured that was all that counted. The animal had left a trail of blood when it ran, but even though a responsible hunter is supposed to track down an animal he’s wounded and put it out of its misery, Jeffrey wasn’t about to go after the damned thing. When he told me the story later, he said that when the animal sped past him, he heard it sobbing in a human voice.”

  She paused and polished off the rest of Dale’s coffee. He thought she might take his mug to the sink and wash it multiple times as she’d done with hers, but she made no move to rise from the table. He waited for her to continue, but she didn’t say any more, just stared down into the empty mug in front of her.

  “Why don’t you finish?” Dale gently prodded.

  “Why bother? You know the rest of it. I was just talking to hear myself talk, I guess.” She glanced up and gave him a tentative smile. “Gets lonely out here sometimes, you know? The phone and e-mail are nice, but they aren’t like having a real person to talk to.”

  Dale thought of how many nights he’d spent sitting in his apartment when books, TV, and the radio weren’t company enough to fill the long hours until he couldn’t resist sleep any longer.

  He did know the rest of Sadie’s story. Jeffrey returned home after his bizarre experience and swore off hunting for good. A year later, deer season rolled around again, and by that time he’d convinced himself that he’d wounded a coyote or maybe even a wolf. And he’d decided not to let fear stop him from enjoying his “primal side,” as Sadie had put it. He went back into Mare’s Nest Woods and was never heard from again. Sadie called Stan Manchester that evening, but the Sheriff figured Jeffrey had probably had one too many beers while he was out and would be home when he sobered up. Sadie told Stan that Jeffrey didn’t drink when he hunted, but Stan figured Jeffrey just told his wife that to keep her from bitching at him. And maybe that was so, but when Jeffrey still hadn’t returned home by the next afternoon, Stan got a search party together — Dale included — and went out into the woods to look for the wayward hunter.

  The search lasted the better part of a week, but when no sign of Jeffrey was found, not even his car, Stan figured that either Jeffrey had been killed and his car stolen or, more likely, he’d taken the opportunity to step out on his wife. He wouldn’t have been the first husband in history to do so, and Stan called off the search. But Sadie had a different theory. She figured that the creature Jeffrey had wounded the previous year had survived, healed, and finally gotten its revenge. That, or it had died and its mate had killed Jeffrey. Whichever the case, the thing that had slain Jeffrey evidently hadn’t been satisfied that its vengeance was complete, for it began to stalk Sadie.


  She began to hear it padding around her house at night, scratching at the door — though it never left any marks — and crying softly outside her bedroom window at night while she lay in the bed she’d shared with her husband. But whenever Sadie mustered the courage to push apart the curtains and look outside, she saw nothing. Sadie became so afraid that she stopped leaving the house. But she still didn’t feel safe, and eventually she decided to leave solid land altogether, and she sold her home, bought a houseboat, and took up residence on the lake.

  Dale wasn’t certain how she thought this move would thwart her bête noir. Couldn’t the animal just swim out and get her? But she said it was a creature of land, not water, and as long as she never set foot ashore for the remainder of her life, she’d be safe. The closest she came to shore was when she moored at the marina’s dock to pick up her mail and the groceries she ordered online. But she always remained aboard her houseboat during these transactions, carrying a loaded rifle just like her husband’s.

  Dale didn’t believe that some sort of monster endlessly prowled the shores of Lake Hush, waiting for the opportunity to slay the widow of Jeffrey Muir, Great White Hunter. But then again, considering some of the things he’d seen in his life, he couldn’t say he disbelieved it, either. Especially not when he recalled the sensation of being watched back on shore.

  “Well, now,” Sadie said. “As I started to say earlier, how can I help you?”

  Dale smiled. “I need you to do some research on a boy named Porter.”

  • • •

  For the next two hours Dale hung out in Sadie’s cramped office aboard her houseboat, sipping coffee as he watched her go about her work. Sadie’s office was crammed with even more stacks of papers and books than her kitchen. She had a state-of-the art PC and printer on a desk made out of an old door laid across two small filing cabinets. The only chair was the one at her computer, and Dale was forced to sit on a pile of three-ring binders.

  Sadie surfed the Net, consulted homemade genealogical charts, made phone calls, sent e-mails, and, he was certain, broke more than a few privacy laws in obtaining the information he’d requested. It was like watching a world-class conductor lead an orchestra, or a phenomenally skilled surgeon perform a life-saving operation. Sadie might not have been the pinnacle of mental health, but she knew her shit, that was for sure.

  At the end of two hours — during which Dale had observed without saying a word — Sadie’s printer began churning out pages. She pushed her office chair away from her workstation and stretched her arms over her head with a groan.

  “All finished. I’m not sure I came up with anything you’ll find useful, though.”

  Dale eyed the documents coming out of the printer with barely restrained greed. It was all he could do to keep from snatching up the pages as they were completed.

  “Can you hit the highlights for me?” he asked.

  “Sure thing. But first, let’s settle up.” Before Dale could reach for his wallet, she said, “You checking account number still the same as last time?” When he said it was, she attacked her keyboard again, and after a few mouse clicks, she said, “There. I’ve transferred the funds from your checking to mine. You should change your password periodically, you know. You’re still using the same one as the last time we did business.”

  Dale would’ve liked to have known exactly how much today’s “business” had set him back, but he supposed it didn’t matter much right now. At the moment, all he cared about was what Sadie had discovered.

  “No links between Carl’s victims were found during the original investigation, if I remember right,” Sadie said.

  “You do. But I thought with all the advancements in computer technology since then …”

  “Sorry. Nothing’s changed. I couldn’t find any significant connections between Carl’s four victims, and believe me, I tried everything I could think of. Two were distantly related by marriage a few generations back, but I doubt either of them knew it.” She nodded toward the printer. “It’s in the report.”

  Dale had been in the newspaper game more than long enough to know better than to get his hopes up, but that’s exactly what he had done. Now he felt those hopes fade, and he realized Joanne had been right. This trip had been a waste of time and, unfortunately for his bank account, a waste of money too.

  “I found nothing of particular interest regarding Ray Porter. One of Carl’s victims was distantly related to the Porters, but her connection to Ray is so distant that to anyone not obsessed with genealogy, they might as well not be related at all. Sorry.”

  Dale’s hopes had been on life support, and Sadie had just pulled the plug.

  “I did find one interesting tidbit, though,” she added. “I called a friend of mine who works at the records department over at Resurrection Hospital. I had her check the birth records to see if any of the victims were born there or ever had been admitted as patients. Three were born there, and two were patients. One for a broken elbow, the other for a severe allergic reaction to an antibiotic.”

  Dale’s hopes were officially deader than a road-pizza possum. Not only was this information unimportant, it was downright dull.

  “On a whim, I asked her to look up Carl Coulter’s records. He was never a patient at the hospital, but he was born there.”

  “Anyone who’s native to Cross County is born there,” Dale said.

  “True enough,” Sadie agreed. “But that’s not the interesting part. Turns out Carl’s birth certificate doesn’t list a father.”

  Dale frowned. “Really? But Lester Coulter was his father. He and Debbie had been married several years before Carl’s birth.” Dale hadn’t lived in Cross County back then, but he’d thoroughly researched Carl’s background during the time of the murders. Even so, he hadn’t discovered Sadie’s “tidbit” at the time.

  “Now before you go getting too excited, keep in mind that it might have simply been a mistake. Things like that happen sometimes, even with computers. Hospitals are busy places and the birth of a child can be a confusing time.”

  Dale thought of Alice’s birth. Marianne had been in labor over thirty-six hours before their daughter was born, and he’d been up with his wife the entire time. He’d been so exhausted when the baby arrived that it had taken him a good half hour to remember whether it was a boy or girl. A confusing time, indeed.

  The printer spit out the final page of Sadie’s report and fell silent. She gathered the pages and stapled them together before handing them to Dale.

  “I hope it’s at least some help to you,” she said.

  “Information is always helpful, one way or another,” he said. “The trick lies in figuring out just how.”

  “Not that I’m trying to drum up business for the competition, but you know I’m not the only source of information in the county,” Sadie said. “You might think about paying Eve a visit.”

  Eve owned and operated the House of Unearthly Delights, a brothel near Somerset where, as county legend had it, any and all desires could be fulfilled — for a price. Prostitutes were excellent sources of information since their customers often talked as much, if not more, than they did anything else. But upon hearing Sadie’s suggestion, Dale felt a cold, clenching sensation in his gut, as if a giant hand of ice had grabbed hold of his stomach and squeezed. “In all the years I’ve lived and worked in Cross County, I have never once consulted Eve, and I don’t intend to do so now.”

  Sadie’s eyes narrowed in an appraising look. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of her.”

  “No, but I am afraid of what she can do,” Dale said, then in a softer voice added, “As valuable as information is, sometimes the price is simply too high.”

  • • •

  Sadie took pity on Dale and dropped him off close to shore so he wouldn’t have so far to paddle his raft. She didn’t stick around to make sure he reached land safely, though. The instant he untied his raft from the boarding ladder, she engaged the engine and headed back toward the
middle of the lake.

  Dale managed to get to shore without overturning his rubber raft. He pulled it onto land, deflated it, shook it a couple times to get the water off, then folded it up. He started back toward the Jeep, the raft and paddle under one arm, Sadie’s report tucked away in a pocket of his suit jacket. As he walked, he told himself that he didn’t feel himself being watched, that there was no shadowy movement between the trees on the other side of the road. Nevertheless, the skin on the back of his neck crawled as he tossed the deflated raft and paddle in the back of his Jeep, then climbed behind the wheel. He forced himself not to look toward the trees as he started the engine and pulled onto Limberlost Road.

  As he accelerated, he checked the rearview mirror out of habit. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he caught a glimpse of something black following at a distance, running sleek and low to the ground. But when he blinked, whatever it was — if indeed it had been real at all — was gone.

  Dale increased his speed, though. Just in case.

  Still, the itch on the back of his neck remained, and a disturbing thought occurred to him. What if Sadie’s Black Beast had gotten tired of waiting for her to make landfall and had decided to seek out other prey? Like a reporter who should’ve retired by now. He forced a laugh and told himself it was a foolish notion. But he didn’t look in his rearview mirror again all the way back to town.

  • • •

  Tyrone Gantz sat on a bus-stop bench across the street from the Burrito Bungalow. A sheriff’s cruiser was parked next to a Camaro. A ‘78, Tyrone guessed, though by no means was he an expert on cars. A deputy he recognized but whose name he didn’t know — probably one of the newer additions to the department, he figured — stood next to the vehicle, talking with the Bungalow’s manager, a skinny kid with an acne-scarred face who looked ridiculous wearing the large floppy sombrero that was part of his uniform. There was enough traffic going by that Tyrone couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he had a good idea.