by Tony Urban
That sounded about right to Carolina. ‘When the going gets tough, the tough get going’ wasn’t a mantra Hank Kolazarek followed. But half an hour ago she was ready to slink out of town, so who was she to judge?
“What was he doing on the computer?” Carolina asked, half expecting to find out Hank had typed up his letter of resignation.
“Uploading the photos he took of the crime scene.”
In the chaos, Carolina had forgotten about Hank frantically snapping away with his phone. “Can you log on and show them to me?”
“Yeah,” Leigh said, biting into an eclair. Some of the creamy center burst free and dribbled onto her chin as she moved to the nearest desktop.
Carolina went to her side, watching the girl sign in and then access the files. Several small thumbnails popped up. Two were useless, out of focus and nothing but indiscernible blobs in the frame. But others were crisp.
One showed Stu, dead of the gunshot wound. As he’d been taken down by friendly fire, Carolina wasn’t too interested in examining that image, but the other held more promise. It showed Larry Twombley, mauled and murdered.
His fresh blood shined white in the light of the phone’s flash. The entire image was over-exposed and it made the scene look entirely different compared to how Carolina had seen it in person. The night prior, everything was dim and shadowy and mysterious. In this picture, it was like someone had turned on the stadium lights. Everything was crisp and clear and discernible.
“Can you make it bigger?” she asked Leigh.
Without a word, Leigh did, magnifying it to full screen, then zooming in on the body. The carnage left in the killer’s wake looked both more obscene and more sterile in the image. The overpowering light provided an almost clinical look. Like a behind-the-scenes photo of special effects on a movie set. But this was all real. Too real.
Her eyes went back and forth across the image, trying to take in every minute detail. And then, she saw something she’d missed when she'd been there in person. Or thought she saw something. She tapped the screen. “Zoom in there,” she said.
Leigh did, but she’d seen it too. And now, at four hundred percent magnification, it was impossible to miss.
A footprint.
But not of a shoe or a boot. Not something from which they could snag a pattern and send around to manufacturers. This was a bare footprint.
And there were more of them all around the body. Dozens. There were handprints, too, but that didn’t strike her as odd. The attacks had been violent and physical, and it made sense for hands to get smashed into the dirt.
But bare feet? That was entirely different.
“The drunks,” Leigh asked. “They all had shoes on, didn’t they?”
Carolina nodded. Everyone there had been dressed for a hike into the forest. Everyone she had seen, that was. The only person she hadn’t seen was--
“Then the killer was barefoot?” Leigh asked.
Carolina had been covered with scratches and bruises and nearly sprained her ankles on multiple occasions, and that was all while being prepared. Being shoeless in that rugged terrain seemed insane.
Then again, what sane person slaughtered and ate people?
“It sure as hell looks like it,” Carolina said.
“Why?” Leigh asked, working a heaping portion of confusion into that single word.
Why, indeed.
If they could figure that out, Carolina thought they might be one step closer to catching this bastard.
Chapter 40
The morning had gone surprisingly well at the clinic. Carlene Cadbury had a meeting in Columbus and had departed before Mitch arrived. She’d left an angry note, which he’d barely skimmed before crumpling it into a ball and depositing it into the trash. The less thought he gave her, the better it was for his sanity.
He saw four patients before lunch. A pug with a sinus infection, a corgi with a tick embedded in its neck, a Golden Retriever with arthritis, and a mutt with two broken bones in its foot. All of the animals obeyed him without incident. Their owners thought he ‘really had a way with dogs,’ but their pets knew the truth. Mitch was one of their own, albeit in a superior, highly evolved way.
It hadn’t always been like that. In his early days as a veterinarian he had struggled, especially with the poorly trained animals. He’d cajole them with treats, coddle them with cutesy baby talk, cow to them like they were in charge.
It changed after the attack. After he’d traded his hand for something much better. After the essence of the wild infected his blood and began to change him from man to animal. He was different - better - and even these house pets sensed it.
It was their reactions to the new, altered Mitch, that had confirmed to him that the changes he felt weren’t figments of his imagination. Or what his therapist had once so dismissively referred to as ‘delusions.’
Because animals, even tame ones, only needed to witness him to separate one of their brethren from an ordinary person. The kind of person who carries baggies and picks up their shit and cuddles them in their laps. They needed just the briefest of sniffs to understand Mitch’s transformation.
In a way, the animals knew it even before he did. It was a mean, old Rottweiler named Diesel that had confirmed it. The dog, which spent most of its life chained to a box aside from the times it managed to escape, had bitten a neighbor. It was a vicious attack that had required dozens of stitches and a small operation to repair. That had been one of many bites over the years and the dog had used up its luck.
When Diesel’s owner brought him in to be euthanized, the dog had been bound in a harness, his jaws secured with a muzzle. Yet saliva flew from its mouth as it growled and snarled and lunged at anyone who came near.
Anyone except Mitch.
Because, when Mitch walked into the room, the dog stared at him with wide, terrified eyes. Its bladder unleashed spilling urine all over the exam room floor. And then it cowered in its own waste, whimpering on the floor, wallowing in its piss as it watched Mitch approach.
Mitch sometimes thought he owed his life - his new life - to Diesel. He wished he’d have stolen the dog, taken him to the forest, and let him live out his days wild and free. A life without a chain or a box, as nature intended. But instead, he gave him the needle.
It was his job, after all.
But not for much longer.
Because Mitch was close. After killing the men in the forest, devouring their gristly, tough meat, he knew he’d fully become his new self soon. And then he’d be able to live for the first time in his forty-plus years. Live the way he was meant to.
As a predator freed from society's bonds.
As a hunter taking whatever he wanted.
As the Wolf.
Chapter 41
Carolina watched the doors open and Hank shuffle, head down, shoulders slumped, into the station. He didn’t wear anything that made him look like he was in charge, no uniform, no suit, not even a button-up shirt. He just wore jeans and a t-shirt that had been wadded up at the bottom of his closet for a few years.
In his face, he looked many years older than he had days earlier. The bags under his eyes were accompanied by dark gray circles and he hadn’t shaved since the morning prior. He could have been a background extra in a zombie movie and wouldn’t have looked out of place.
Carolina struggled to remain calm as he passed her by. The smell of stale beer wafted off him like dime-store cologne before he disappeared into his office. The audacity of finally making a token appearance, well past noon, on the worst day his staff had ever experienced.
She and Leigh had been working all morning. Even Odie was doing his best after waking from his nap. Together, the three of them hadn’t caught the killer, but at least they’d put together some ideas and possibilities. All while their boss was sleeping off a hangover.
She wanted to rip into him and was prepared to do just that, even if it got her fired from the case. She stormed past the desks, mouth open and ready to let him hav
e it, when --
The station door flung open, smacking into the stopper with a hearty thud. A woman in her fifties strode inside. Her jet-black suit in pristine order. She wore Rockport dress shoes, also black. When the woman pulled her deeply tinted sunglasses off, Carolina saw a look in her eye that she was all too familiar with. She’d run across a few people like this woman before, and it was clear who she was.
FBI.
“Oh fuck,” Carolina muttered, staring at the woman who stood in the lobby like a Queen in search of a court.
The agent glanced around, taking it all in, eyes squinted, lips pursed. Carolina wasn’t sure what her assessment was, and she didn’t care. The fact that this person was going to come into their investigation and start bossing them around infuriated her. She never had been good with authority and saw no reason to change now, pills or no pills.
“I’m Special Agent Billington,” the woman said before anyone bothered to ask. “Frances Billington, if you care to know. And I need to get some things out of the way before you jump to assumptions.”
Odie wandered out of the break room, yawning. He stretched his arms behind his back and watched the situation unfold. Leigh jumped from her desk and stood at attention. Hank stayed in his office, apparently not caring to listen to the words Agent Billington had to say.
“I’m not here to step on any toes. I’m not here to tell people that they aren’t doing a good job. My purpose here is singular. To assist with the investigation,” Billington said.
While she spoke, Carolina studied her. Billington was tall, a good five ten. Her hair, the color of lead, was fashionably styled and shoulder length. She was lean and fit, like a woman who competed in triathlons in her spare time. She wasn’t attractive in a conventional way but had a striking face that would prove hard to forget.
“After a brief discussion, the sheriff and I have come to the conclusion that I will be in charge from this point forward. So, while I don’t intend to bark orders at any of you, I do expect everything you do and everything you find out to go through me first and foremost. I don’t give a rat’s ass if you think it’s inconsequential or unimportant; I want to know it all. Because from this point on, we’re working as a team.”
Frances Billington looked from Odie to Leigh, and then to Carolina. She seemed to linger on her the longest.
“I’m not looking to score points for the FBI. I’m looking for a win for the people of Hopkins County. Together, we’re going to put a stop to these killings. I’m assuming that’s what we all want, right?” she asked.
A simultaneous nod was shared, and Agent Billington seemed satisfied. Hank reemerged from his office, holding a file filled with loose papers and pictures. It was everything from the case.
“Here it is,” he said, still not acknowledging Carolina.
Billington accepted the file and walked to the closest desk, which happened to be Odie’s. She plopped it on top and quickly fanned through it. Carolina had to admit that she was slightly impressed with Billington getting straight to business.
“Okay, I’ll put together a profile of the subject after reviewing all the evidence.” She glanced up from the paperwork. “Deputy Benner?”
“That’s me,” Leigh said, perking up.
Billington offered a thin smile. “We’ll talk about your notes and what to do with them moving forward. Looks like some well-detailed items you’ve done. Good work.”
Leigh beamed. It was obvious Hank never appreciated her like that. Carolina felt a twinge of jealousy that her new friend was getting attention from someone other than her.
“That makes you Deputy Clark,” Billington said, looking at Odie.
“Most folks just call me Odie,” he said with a bashful grin.
“I’m not most people. I prefer to keep it professional. Deputy Clark it stays,” she said. Odie didn’t seem to mind, his mustache tilting as he shrugged.
Billington spun toward Carolina, narrowing her eyes. “So, who does that make you?” she asked.
Carolina was caught off guard, coughing up some saliva that she inhaled on the spot. “Carolina McKay…Private Detective,” she added.
Billington looked her over, her intense, icy blue eyes crawling up and down. If she was trying to be intimidating, it was working.
“Did one of the families hire you?” she asked.
Carolina shook her head. “Hank, er, Sheriff Kolazarek brought me in to assist.” She swallowed hard, not sure why she suddenly felt like an unruly student called into the principal’s office. “Before you, I mean.”
Billington’s cold, questioning gaze went on until Carolina felt required to continue, even though no questions were asked.
“We used to be partners on the Baltimore PD. He asked to give my input since I’ve dealt with cases like these before.”
Billington considered her a moment, cocking her head to the side. Finally, she spoke. “And what input have you provided thus far?”
Shit. Carolina was drawing a blank, and all eyes were on her. The truth was, she hadn’t given much input outside of telling Hank what a shitty job he’s done.
“We’ve been tracking the last known whereabouts of Katie Eddows. We also found some footprints at the scene that point to the killer being barefoot,” Carolina said, realizing how little it was. Then she became more inspired. “It was also at my suggestion that we questioned men who have been arrested for poaching in Silver Gap. That’s where the bodies were found.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Billington said, unimpressed.
“One of them gave a description of a potential suspect. But we’re waiting on a sketch artist to get that down on paper.”
“This suspect. What makes him suspicious?”
“He was, um, walking his dog in the area.”
“Dog-walking is a high crime in Hopkins?” Billington asked with a smirk.
Carolina clenched her jaw so hard she thought she might shatter a molar. “No. But the area is extremely remote. It’s not the type of place the average person goes for a casual stroll.”
“Alright then. I’ll have the agency send in a forensic artist. And where are we with the last known whereabouts of the victim?” Billington asked.
Carolina chewed her bottom lip and stifled a sigh. “A dead end. So far.”
“So, a dog walker. A barefoot killer. And nowhere with the victim,” Billington confirmed. Carolina nodded. But Billington lifted her eyebrows, as if she was pointing out the exact reason that the FBI was brought in to help. “Right now we’re all hands on deck, Ms. McKay. If you come across anything, I expect a report. Are we in agreement on that?”
Carolina nodded. She was used to flying solo on cases, but everything Agent Billington said was fair. She didn’t like Special Agent Frances Billington, but she would try to work with her.
Chapter 42
After three long, seemingly endless days the investigation hadn’t taken so much as a small step forward. Carolina wasn’t happy about that. She wanted the madman responsible for the killings locked up. But she had to admit there was a grudging sense of relief that Frances Billington hadn’t simply strolled into town and solved the case within twenty-four hours.
It was a horrible way to think. She loathed herself for allowing it. But it was true. If Billington had found some clue Carolina had missed and brought this nightmare to an end, who knew how her psyche would react. Maybe Frijole and his bag o’ pills would look much more appealing.
It was almost eight p.m. when Billington ordered everyone out for the day. The woman was tireless, but she was a solid leader and didn’t want their meager crew getting burned out. Carolina considered heading back to the motel to crash, probably after getting some awful fast food so she could add ketchup stains to the bedspread. But she was too pissed off.
Pissed off at the killer. At her own failures. At the world. But most of all, at Hank. She hadn’t exchanged a word with him since the night the drunks were slaughtered. She’d tried to catch his eye, steal a glance here and there, hoping
he would take the hint, but he was amazingly adept at ignoring her. She didn’t take it personally, though, as he’d been ignoring everyone.
With her frustrations boiling over, Carolina decided it was time to confront the man who’d brought her to Ohio and find out where things stood. She grabbed the doorknob to his office, twisted, and found it locked.
“Asshole,” she muttered, only a little surprised, and then knocked.
“Hank, it’s Carolina.”
She waited, trying to listen. She thought she heard a chair creak, but a full minute passed and the door was still closed.
She hammered the side of her fist into the door. “Damn it, Hank, open this fucking door before I take a blowtorch to it.”
“Um, Carolina?” The reedy, tired voice belonged to Odie, who’d snuck up behind her without her knowing. She needed to put a bell on him.
She looked over her shoulder. “Is there a spare key to this door?”
Odie nodded. “There is.” He took a long breath. Everything about the man moved with the velocity of cold honey. “There’s an extra set in the supply closet.” Another long pause. “I can get it for you if you--”
Carolina waved him off. “I’ll get it. Thanks, Odie.”
She was halfway there when--
“But Hank’s not in his office.”
She spun back to the man, wondering why he didn’t lead with that bit of information. “Do you know where he is?”
Odie chewed his bottom lip, mustache twitching like a frightened hare.
“Come on, Odie. I need to talk to him.”
Finally, the man cooperated. “I believe he’s been spending his evenings at The Fomo Palace.”
That’s where Carolina found herself as the sun went down. The Fomo Palace was a gentleman’s club, but she had little hope of finding any gentlemen inside its walls.