Poaching Grounds: A gripping psychological crime thriller (Carolina McKay Thriller Book 4)

by Tony Urban

  “Wait, I know,” Frijole said. “You an Oxy girl, ain’t you? Need a little something to take the edge off and get a good night’s sleep?” He chuckled. “I got you, I got you.”

  She heard a zipper being pulled, looked back, and saw the dealer’s bag was open and filled to the brim with merchandise. His slender hand went to an orange pill bottle which he grabbed and held up for her to see, shaking it like a maraca.

  The name on the bottle’s label was CLAYTON, DOLORES, and Frijole popped the top and dumped a couple pills into his hand. They were 80s. The good shit.

  “What you say? Wanna party with Frijole?” he said, licking his thin lips as a sly grin spread across his face.

  She looked at the pills, then back to Frijole. Then her eyes returned to the pills. And the mosquito bites covering her body were suddenly of no concern. She had a different itch that needed scratching.

  Chapter Fourteen

  He chased the prey through the woods. Relentless.

  She was five yards ahead and gaining. All he could see was her naked silhouette in the cold, blue light of the moon. She was young. Fresh. Tender.

  His heart thudded rapid fire in his chest. Fire filled his lungs with each breath. It was a feeling that filled him with ecstasy. The thrill of the hunt.

  Branches ripped at his bare skin, tearing fissures into his flesh, but he paid them no heed because her frantic, panicked exhales claimed his full attention. Her sniffling cries. The soft moans that spilled from her lips as she put every ounce of herself into trying to escape.

  But she wouldn’t get away. He was certain of that. This was all part of the ritual.

  She disappeared down an incline. Out of sight. Lost.

  He tilted back his head, feeling his wild hair tickling his shoulders. His nostrils flared as he caught her scent, smelled the high odor of fear ebbing from her tiring body.

  No, she won’t get away. She won’t escape him.

  He pushed through the thicket of maple trees, saplings. Their delicate, spindly trunks whipped back and forth, lashing his skin. The pain excited him even more. He plunged down the hill, tracking the prey not by sight, not now, but by smell.

  By instinct.

  Dead, dry branches snapped; sounds followed by a pained yelp. His heart beat faster. He ran faster. Nothing could stop him now.

  She was on all fours when he found her. Her pudgy, piggish belly sagging low. Her pallid, alabaster flesh an obscenity against the black of the forest. There was no camouflage for her. No hiding. No escape.

  Only capture.

  Only…him.

  Her body rose and she staggered forward, loping awkwardly ahead in a miserable gallop. She wasn't sniffling now. She was sobbing. He halved the distance in three bounding leaps. His body slick with sweat and blood, his muscles rippling. His jaws parted to allow his hungry, feral sounds to escape.

  Alerted to his presence, she looked back. And screamed.

  The perfume of her fear sent the synapses in his brain firing like rockets. What little self-control he possessed vanished. He was all desire and need and hunger.

  Despite her fear, despite her pain, despite the fact that she knew she was going to die badly, the prey forced herself forward. But it was all for naught because he was upon her.

  He pounced on her, their bodies colliding. The force of the impact sent them to the ground, skittering across the rough carpet of the forest floor. Pine needles pricked his skin, a hundred small daggers.

  The disturbed ground sent up the sour aroma of decay, but even that could not drown out the smell of the girl. Her fragrant terror.

  When she tried to scramble free, he snatched a fistful of her hair and threw her down. She landed face-first in the dirt, and he pounced on her back.

  “Please!” she screamed. “Don’t do this to me!”

  She clawed the ground, fingers sinking into the soil as she fought for a hold and to drag herself forward, to get away. Her legs kicked, pivoting like a swimmer. She whimpered and mewled and bawled. She pleaded and begged, but her words were a foreign language to him because he was not a man anymore.

  The chase had been long and what little strength she had left drained from her in under a minute. Her desperate struggles lost their momentum as he rode her and wore her down. Her body spasmed, wracked with sobs.

  The hunt was over. The fight was over. All that was left was the kill. And what came after.

  He raked his hands across the bare skin of the prey’s back, claws ripping tendrils of flesh. She might have screamed, but he couldn't hear anything now, nor did he care to. The smell of her blood overwhelmed him.

  He flattened himself against her, feeling the clammy heat of her spent body against his own. Then he sank his teeth into her throat, snapping his jaws shut like a steel trap. The hot, coppery taste of her life flooded his mouth.

  This was what he wanted. What he needed. This was why he existed.

  Snapping his head sideways, he tore away a mouthful of her skin, then swallowed it down almost whole. The feeling of it - so hot, so alive - sliding down his gullet was rapturous.

  The prey’s movements slowed as her blood seeped into the forest floor, forming scarlet rivulets in the dirt. Any efforts she made to break free were little more than reflex.

  He took a second bite, this one out of her shoulder. His teeth hit her bones and he rolled her onto her back, giving him full access to the softer meat of her chest and abdomen.

  Then he feasted.

  The prey was dead.

  And he was the Wolf.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Carolina laid on the lumpy motel bed and stared up at the popcorn ceiling. Her eyes wandered across the various stains. Most looked like water, but that made little sense being on the first floor. So, what were they? Blood? Bodily fluids? Up there?

  She shuddered, thinking the van might be a better option after all, then let out a long, exhausted sigh. Because, tired as she was, her mind was spinning, and she was unable to relax.

  The air conditioner kicked on and rattled against the wall, emitting a stale musty aroma. The cool breeze drifted from under the window and sagged back across her like a wet blanket.

  Upon moving in, she’d noticed the purple, floral-print comforter had a certain crusty feel, so she’d ripped it off the bed and discarded it on the floor. The sheets felt like they were one hundred thread count and covered in pilling, but at least they were white-ish and freshly laundered. But with the A/C on she began to feel exposed and cold, neither of which helped her mind settle.

  Accepting that sleep was not coming, she grabbed the case file she’d been given earlier in the day off the nightstand. Skipping past the pages of text, she went straight for the crime scene images. That perverse tapestry of corpses.

  Was it as random as it looked, or had the killer arranged them? Had their bodies been so abused and devoured when he put them there, or had the animals and carrion been at them? The autopsy notes were of little help.

  The county coroner, Dr. Steven Christie, had done his best, but it was clear he was in deeper water than he’d ever seen before. He’s noticed bite wounds and claw marks, but the only experience the man had with homicide was via guns, knives, and the occasional baseball bat. Hopkins County was a good place where things like this didn’t happen. Only now they had and no one within its borders was prepared.

  She tried to concentrate, to find something others missed, but her mind wouldn’t let her. After telling Frijole, the friendly neighborhood drug dealer, to take a hike, all she could think about was Hank and his remarks about her being a snob. And the past, which included a dozen more Hanks at various levels of Baltimore PD.

  What was that saying? If you think everyone around you is the problem, maybe YOU are the problem?

  Could that be true?

  Carolina knew she wasn’t the easiest person to get along with. But Hank was projecting, wasn’t he? While she and Elven hadn’t started off on the best foot, they patched things up quickly enough and wo
rked well together. She’d even gotten along with FBI Agent Jack Burrell when her sister went missing. Most of the time.

  Even Max liked her, despite their glaring differences.

  She smiled, knowing she could turn to him and have this matter settled. And then she could focus. She grabbed her phone and flipped it open, but it was dead. Shit. She made a mental note to put it on the charger, then took the room phone. After charging the long-distance call to her room, she dialed Max’s number from memory.

  It rang twice before he picked up.

  “This is Max Barrasso’s phone. Who’s calling?”

  “Who the fuck answers a phone like that?” Carolina asked.

  “Hey girl,” Max said with a smile that could be heard through the receiver. “I didn’t recognize the number. You get a new burner?”

  “It’s the motel phone,” she said. Then, without a breath, “Do you think I’m a bitch?”

  “And hello to you too,” Max answered.

  “Oh, yeah. Hi. So do you?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “Think I’m a bitch?” she repeated.

  He took a long pause, as if trying to decide whether she was serious or not. “I feel like this is a trap,” he eventually said.

  “Am I that bad?” she asked.

  Max’s throat clicked as he swallowed hard. “You’re not a bitch, Carolina. You know who you are, though, and a lot of men aren’t comfortable with that level of confidence in a woman.”

  “What about being a team player?” she asked.

  Max laughed except this time it was more nervous. “Carolina, there is only one player on your team.”

  She scowled, shoulders sagging. “Thanks for making me feel worse.”

  “You asked me, and I tried joking around, but you wanted it to be real.”

  “I won’t make that mistake again,” she said, going back to tracing her gaze along the mystery spots in the ceiling.

  “Why are you in a hotel anyway?” he asked. “MarySue break down on you?”

  “MarySue?”

  “That’s what I call your van,” Max said.

  “What kind of shit name is that?”

  “What do you call her?” he asked.

  “I don’t call it anything. It’s a van, not a love interest.”

  “Whatever. You do you. To me, she’ll always be MarySue,” Max said. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

  Despite herself, Carolina smiled. There was just something about him that could bring the good out in her regardless of the circumstances. “No, my van is not broken down. I’m working a case in southern Ohio and needed some space to spread out.”

  “Southern Ohio?” he asked. “Why the hell do you keep ending up in such backwoods shitholes?”

  “This one is actually pretty nice,” she said, hearing the irony in her words as she sat in this thirty-nine-dollar-per-night suite from hell.

  “What’s the gig?”

  “I’m trying to help the county sheriff catch a serial killer.”

  “That doesn’t sound very nice to me,” he said.

  “And how many murders were there in New York City last year?”

  There was silence for a brief moment, then he grumbled, “Point taken.”

  “Anyway, thanks for the confidence boost,” she said. “I should try to get some sleep.”

  “How are you doing?” he asked, nothing but concern in his voice.

  “Good.” She thought that was the truth.

  “No, really. How are you?”

  She got up from the bed and stood in front of the air conditioner. The machine made the curtains flutter and sway, giving quick glimpses into the parking lot. She decided to push them aside and make sure her van still had all four wheels.

  It did and looked unharmed. A relief.

  As she went to close the curtains, she saw Frijole leaning against the ice maker, smoking a blunt. A car rolled to a stop beside him, and they exchanged what she could only assume was drugs and money before it quickly drove off.

  As he pocketed his payday, he looked into Carolina’s room and locked eyes with her. He beamed a smile and gave her a hey, girl nod.

  She let the curtains fall shut.

  “I’m fine, Max. You don’t need to worry about me.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep

  He opened his eyes at the incessant sound of the alarm going off. Above him the ceiling fan whirred, casting a strong breeze against his naked body. It felt pleasant, refreshing. A great way to start the day.

  Switching off the alarm, he rolled out of bed and stretched out the aches. His muscles were sore and tight from the previous night’s exertion. His jaw especially throbbed. It had experienced quite the workout.

  He smiled at the memories.

  He felt closer than ever to what he was becoming. But he wasn’t fully there yet. He was still growing. Still changing. Still evolving. His old self still lingered. The part that had responsibilities beyond hunting and surviving. The part that he loathed.

  Yawning, he traced his tongue over his teeth. He could still taste the prey and his mouth flooded with saliva and renewed hunger. He wanted - needed - more.

  Soon, he told himself. Patience.

  He trudged his feet over the worn carpet of the bedroom, transitioning to cool tile when he reached the bath. There he flipped on the light, brightness flooding over him as he examined himself in the mirror.

  He cared little about his face, because it wouldn’t be his face for much longer now. As such, the scar that ran from his right temple, across and through his eyebrow, and then snaked its way up his forehead and into his hairline mattered not at all. While his facial wound and amputated hand drew attention from others, he’d embraced the scars because they signified the beginning of his evolution.

  Numerous small scratches and scrapes marred his tan skin, but they were all superficial. Abs popped at his waist. Not a six- or eight-pack yet, just two above his groin, but as he ran his hand across his torso he felt more lurking under the flesh. His chest had broadened, his pecs firm. A thatch of brown hair spread across his torso, and, to his eyes, it was growing denser and darker.

  He raised a hand, running it through his mane of hair which now draped past his shoulders. He pulled loose a sliver of a leaf and tossed it into the nearby trash can.

  With his arms up, he saw his biceps, triceps, and deltoids pushing against the skin. Muscles he used for purpose, not for show. He looked stronger than ever before. More powerful. More dominant.

  He smiled, knowing he was becoming what he was meant to be.

  And soon everyone would know his nature.

  Through his grin, he examined his teeth and noticed a sliver of flesh pinned between the incisor and canine. He tried to work it loose with his tongue, then a fingernail, but couldn’t free it so he resorted to a dental pick. Once it was extracted, he held the scrap on his fingertip and brought it to his nose, sniffing.

  It smelled like sulfur, rot, decomposition. He shoved his finger, and the meat, into his mouth, sucking it, savoring it. It was the last of the prey and that knowledge left him feeling melancholy.

  He wanted nothing more than to relive that moment. Then to take back to the bed and dream about all the things he’d done, and plan for all the things he was going to do again.

  “Mitch, breakfast is ready,” his wife’s voice called out from the kitchen.

  But first, he had to kiss his wife and go to work.

  He parked his car around the back of the building and stepped out into the already stifling morning. Heat radiated off the blacktop in shimmery, rainbow-colored waves and it made him long for the forest. But, for the time being, he had to exist in this fabricated reality and pretend to be normal.

  Pushing through a rear door, he entered a storage room cluttered with supplies, boxes, food, and medical equipment. For an average person, the pungent aroma of cleaning supplies and ammonia would have overpowered the smell of scared animals nearby,
but he was far from average.

  Even from here, he could smell their fur and dander, the various scents they brought from their homes. He inhaled the cologne of domestication on them and pitied them.

  He moved through the backroom and opened the door to the next. As soon as he did, the whines, hisses, and barks from dogs and cats in kennels assaulted his sensitive ears. But before he could even set foot in the room, he was confronted by a petite woman with a short bob of maroon hair.

  She glared at him, brow furrowed, finger pointing.

  “This is the third time this month you’ve been late,” Carlene said. She wore pink scrubs with cartoon dog prints. But no number of cutesy colors or adorable comics on her clothes could conceal her rotten core.

  Mitch looked to the clock on the wall just above the kennels. It was five minutes after seven. “I didn’t realize the time.”

  “This is your last warning,” she spat.

  He looked at her throat where blood coursed through her carotid. Throbbing underneath her fair skin. He wanted to grab her, to use his teeth to rip open that artery. He suspected she would taste quite foul but putting an end to her would make it worthwhile.

  Instead, he apologized. “I’m sorry.” He hated himself for cowing to her. He knew he was the alpha, and she should be begging him for mercy.

  “Stuff your sorries in a sack and remember who signs your paychecks,” she said, turning to leave him.

  “Isn’t that your husband?” He couldn’t help it. It wasn’t the flesh-ripping bite that she deserved, but it was enough to set her off.

  She spun around and stepped into his space. “You think you’re so amusing. You think you’re indispensable because you’re good with the animals. And because all the middle-aged hags enjoy the attention you give them.” She rolled her eyes, overly dramatic. “Well, I got news for you, Mitch. The housewives might like you, but everyone that works here thinks you’re a weirdo,” she said with a cruel smile.