by Jack Kilborn
“He’ll be leaving early, so be sure to get some rest tonight. Might not be a bad idea to go straight to bed.”
“An excellent suggestion,” Mal said, raising his eyebrows at Deb.
She ignored him. “Is there any chance we could get something to eat?” Deb asked. “We missed dinner on the ride up.”
“The kitchen is back there, down the hall. The icebox is stocked, and you’re welcome to help yourselves. I made cupcakes earlier today, and there are a few left. But let me show you to your rooms, first.”
Eleanor plodded up the wooden staircase. Deb wasn’t a big fan of stairs, but the iron railing looked solid. She followed Mal up, stopping only to admire his trim backside as they ascended. Deb found it amusing that he continued to flirt despite several rebuffs. For a millisecond she entertained what it might be like to date Mal. The fantasy disintegrated when she caught the toe of her Cheetah prosthetic on the top stair. Luckily, she managed to make it to the second floor without a face-plant.
“Deborah, this is the Theodore Roosevelt room,” Eleanor said, holding out a key. “One of the finest rooms in the Inn.”
Deb didn’t suppose that meant very much. “Does it have a bath tub?”
“Indeed it does. And for you—I didn’t catch your name.”
“Mal. Mal Deiter.”
“Next door over, Mr. Deiter, is the Harry S. Truman room. While it doesn’t have a bathtub, I believe you’ll find the walk-in shower most agreeable. And necessary, considering your current appearance.”
“We ran into one of the locals, making venison headcheese,” Mal said, taking the key. “Is it currently hunting season?”
Eleanor smiled. “There’s always something in season around these parts.”
“Have the Pillsburys arrived yet? I didn’t see any other cars around. I’m a reporter, and I’m supposed to interview them.”
“They have, but I’m afraid they turned in for the evening.”
“Perhaps I’ll get to see them at breakfast.”
“Perhaps. If you’ll indulge an old woman’s fancy, might I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“I pride myself in being able to guess blood types. You strike me as a type O. Am I correct?”
“Yes, you are.”
Eleanor’s bulbous eyes lit up. “Would that be positive or negative?”
“Positive.”
“You’re sure about that?”
Mal winked. “I’m positive.”
Eleanor nodded politely. “Thank you, Mr. Deiter.” The old lady curtsied. “I trust you’ll both have a pleasant night.”
Then she waddled off, leaving the two of them befuddled.
“Blood type?” Deb finally asked when the old woman had descended the stairs.
“Maybe she’s a vampire,” Mal said. “She might have been the creature you saw in the bushes.”
“I saw a cougar, Mal. Not an old woman.”
“Was it wearing a pillbox hat?”
Deb allowed herself to smile. “Maybe it was. I think it also had a rifle. Perhaps it shot out my tire.”
“Touché. I’m going to unpack and grab some food. Meet you in the kitchen in a few?”
“Sure.”
Mal handed Deb her bags, then unlocked his door. “See you in a bit.”
In keeping with the theme of the Inn, the Teddy Roosevelt room was chockfull of creepy presidential memorabilia. Every wall boasted pictures and banners, the lamp shades were collage pastiches, and not a single stick of furniture was without a Roosevelt stamp of some sort. Eleanor had even managed to find Teddy Roosevelt bed sheets, his cherubic face five feet wide and grinning like the Cheshire cat.
Deb placed her two suitcases in the closet, next to an old reel-to-reel tape deck. Since she wouldn’t be here for more than a few hours, it didn’t make sense to unpack. She’d pull out a change of clothes in the morning.
A trip to the bathroom found her appearance to be considerably less than stellar. She applied a bit of lip gloss from her fanny back, a bit of mousse to her hair, and used the hand soap on the sink to get the last of the deer blood out from her expensive manicured fingernails. A life-size poster of Roosevelt hung next to the toilet, his eyes seeming to follow her. Deb didn’t mind—the old-fashioned clawfoot bathtub more than made up for the bizarre decorations. She was aching to have a soak. And if she’d been alone, she would have put off dinner and done just that.
And yet, she found herself leaving the bathroom, and her room, in order to meet Mal in the kitchen.
Why am I so anxious to see him again? And why am I hurrying?
He’s probably not even there yet.
She still descended the stairs quicker than safety warranted.
To get to the kitchen, she walked through the living room, getting a startle when she saw the large man standing in the middle of the room.
No, that’s not a man.
It was the statue of George Washington, larger than life and dressed in period clothing. Deb found it oppressive, and gave it a wide berth as she passed.
The walls of the kitchen were lined with ephemera; magazine covers, newspapers, brochures, campaign signs. On the running board near the ceiling was a line of dinner plates, each bearing faces and quotes of Presidents. Unlike the unusual odor pervading the rest of the house, this room smelled delightfully like baked goods. Deb’s enthusiasm sank when she failed to see Mal.
Maybe he’s not coming. Maybe he just went to bed.
Then she noticed him peering into the refrigerator, and had to suppress her smile.
“There are enough cupcakes in here to feed the entire state of West Virginia,” Mal said. “There’s also a mystery meat sandwich. Interested?”
“I love meat in all of its permutations.”
Mal stacked a plate of cupcakes and the plate with the sandwich on one hand, and grabbed a glass carafe of milk and two apples with the other. He bumped the refrigerator door closed with his hip, and laid everything out on the dining room table.
“Pretty good balance,” Deb said, easing into a chair.
“I waited tables in college. Would madam care to split the sandwich?”
“Madam would like to eat the whole thing. But since you carried up my bags, I guess I’m willing to share.”
Mal went to the cupboard and found an extra plate and two glasses. While Deb poured the milk, Mal searched drawers for utensils.
“So you never got around to telling me about the history of Monk Creek,” she said, licking the pink frosting on a cupcake. It was buttercream, and very good. “You said you were researching it and discovered some interesting things.”
“Indeed I did. You want to hear something really interesting? This woman has dozens of forks and spoons, but not a single knife.”
“Not even a butter knife?”
“Not one. I guess you get the whole sandwich after all.”
Deb reached into her fanny pack, took out her Benchmade folding knife. She flicked the five inch blade open with her thumb and cut the sandwich in half. The meat was whitish, piled on high. The lettuce and tomato were still crisp. Eleanor had made this recently.
“Nice piece of cutlery,” Mal said, sitting across from Deb.
“I won’t be trapped in the woods without a weapon ever again,” Deb said, wiping it on her pants.
They each tore into their halves. Deb was surprised by how hungry she was. She was also surprised by the taste of the meat. It wasn’t unpleasant. Just unusual.
“Is this chicken?” she asked.
Mal shook his head. “Pheasant.”
“You sure?”
“Pretty sure. Dad used to take me hunting, when I was a kid.”
“You still go?”
“No. Lost my taste for it.”
“Pheasant?”
“Killing animals. I’m not a hypocrite, though. I still a voracious carnivore. But not enough to go after it on my own.”
Deb took another bite, then sliced into one of the apples. The crisp fruit was a n
ice compliment to the gaminess of the meat.
“So, Monk Creek,” she said. “What did you discover in your investigative reporting?”
Mal finished chewing, and swallowed. “The thing I liked best about being a cop was figuring things out. I didn’t like the violence, which is why I left the force to study journalism. So while researching this assignment, I wanted to learn about the history of the region, to use as a background for the interviews. And I found out some pretty strange things.”
Deb cut off another hunk of apple. “Such as?”
Mal polished his apple on his shirt and took a bite. “A lot of people disappear in these parts.”
When Deb finished chewing she said, “Quantify a lot.”
“In the past forty years, more than five hundred people.”
Deb did the math in her head. “That’s only about one a month. Doesn’t seem like too many.”
“Considering Monk Creek’s small population, that’s more than ten times the national average.”
She wiped some mayo from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’ve climbed the mountains here. It’s easy to get lost.”
“But the majority of lost people get found. Either alive or dead. These people are gone. Vanished, without a trace. You’d think some of them would have been discovered.”
“Odd,” Deb agreed. “Does anyone have any theories?”
“That’s also strange. No one seems to think it means anything. Because most of the missing people are from different states, there’s no joint task force treating this like a single problem. The only unifying factor is the sheriff of Monk Creek. And he’s... interesting.”
“In what way?”
“I spoke with him on the phone. Let’s just say I’m not convinced all of his cylinders are firing.”
“Why would the town hire him?”
“Maybe that’s why the town hired him.”
Deb finished off her sandwich. “So it’s a big conspiracy?”
Mal shrugged. “Could be. Could be just a coincidence.”
“You come up with anything else?”
“Just one thing. The disappearances began after a specific event in the town’s history. There was a pharmaceutical plant that employed almost everyone in the area. It was closed down by the government in the early 60s, and the town began to die out. As the population dropped, the number of missing persons rose dramatically.”
Deb set the apple core aside, and went back to the cupcake she’d been licking. She peeled off the paper, thinking about five hundred people missing in this area. Missing, presumed dead.
How does something like that happen? Don’t these people have families? Didn’t the families know where they were going?
And yet, Deb herself never told anyone she was going mountain climbing that fateful day. One of many rookie mistakes she’d made. If she’d told someone, and had been overdue, maybe they could have sent help.
Deb felt a stab of adrenaline kick up her heart rate.
No one knows where I am now.
Last year, Deb had lost her parents. Mom, to cancer. Dad, to grief over Mom. The tough exterior Deb wore like armor kept anyone from getting close.
So here she was, making the same rookie mistakes all over again.
I’m not mountain climbing, though.
No, I’m at a creepy inn, out in the middle of nowhere.
But this time, there is someone who knows where I am.
She glanced at Mal, who’d taken their plates and was dumping the apple cores and bread crust into the garbage can in the corner of the room. He lifted the can’s lid, peered inside, then made a face.
“You okay?” Deb asked.
“Remember when I said the meat was pheasant?” Mal asked.
Deb’s stomach turned a slow somersault. “What are you saying?”
“I think I was wrong.” Mal said. “It wasn’t pheasant at all.”
# # #
Maria’s alive.
The thought stunned Felix. After a year of hoping, despairing, and wondering, to finally have this confirmed was so overpowering he didn’t know whether to cheer, laugh, or weep.
“What have you done to her, you son of a bitch?”
Cam pushed Felix aside and grabbed John by his flabby neck. He raised the hunting knife.
“Answer me or I’ll scalp you.”
Felix reached out, ready to intervene, but John began to babble. It was a rant, mostly incoherent, but obviously sincere.
“Blue blood. It’s blue. We all got blue blood. Me ‘n my brothers. Direct line to Charlemagne. Like the Presidents. Ma says it’s too pure. Too presidential ‘n strong. We get sick. We need mixin’.”
“We bled her. Same as the others. Nice and slow.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Cam said.
But Felix thought he got it. “You need her blood.”
Cam looked at him. “Huh?”
“Transfusions,” Felix said. He stared at John. “Is that why you’re so worried about bleeding?”
“If’n I get cut, it don’t stop. Takes too long to heal up.”
Cameron shook his head. “No way. I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true,” John implored. “We don’t hurt her none. We just use her for bleedin’. And...” John’s voice trailed off.
“And, what?” Cam said.
John pursed his lips. Cam pointed the hunting knife at Jon’s face. An inch from his nose.
“What!”
“And makin’ babies,” John whispered.
Felix sank to his knees, feeling like someone had punched him. He’d been overwhelmed by emotion after hearing Maria was alive. Now, hearing why Maria had been taken—to be bled and raped by a family of psychos—it was too much to handle.
“Bullshit,” Cam said, shaking his head. “You’re lying.”
“I ain’t. I ain’t lyin’.”
“We’ll see.”
And then Cam stuck him with the knife. In his right arm, just below the shoulder.
John screamed. High-pitched and loud, like a girl. Cam jammed the sock back into the hunter’s mouth, while Felix watched, slack-jawed, as blood began to soak John’s shirt.
The giant thrashed, breaking the chair, crashing to the floor. Landing on his broken fingers made him scream even louder, and he rolled onto his side, kicking to get the rope off his legs.
Felix tore off John’s sleeve to assess the injury. The knife wound did more than bleed. It gushed with John’s heartbeat, pumping out of his body with a lub-dub rhythm.
“Wild,” Cam said. His face twisted into a grin.
Felix pressed his ruined hands to John’s wound, then spat out at Cam, “You asshole! If he dies we won’t find Maria!”
Cam stuck out his lower lip. “What do I do?”
“My tool kit! In the truck! Get the superglue!”
Cam ran off. John flipped, onto his belly, knocking Felix away. Blood soaked the carpet beneath him. He pulled the sock out of John’s mouth and implored, “Where is she?”
“Stop the bleedin’... gotta... stop the bleedin’”
“Tell me where Maria is, and I’ll stop the blood.”
“Turn...” John mumbled.
“Turn? Turn where?”
“Turnikit...”
Shit. John’s going to die without giving up where she is.
They’d used all of the rope to tie John up. Felix could have cut off a length, used that, but John was too big to be able to control. Felix’s eyes wandered the room, frantic. They locked on the closet.
Hurrying to it, he grabbed a metal clothes hanger and stretched it in his hands, wincing as he bent back the hook on top. When the wire opened up, he tucked one end under John’s armpit. Then Felix brought the two ends together and began to twist the hanger around John’s biceps. It was easy at first. But once the wire began to meet with resistance, Felix didn’t have enough strength in his mangled fingers to make it tight.
Dammit, where’s Cam?
; Felix picked up a broken chair leg and jammed that under the wire. He began to turn the leg, like a propeller, cinching the wire tight against John’s skin.
John moaned.
The wound still bled.
Gritting his teeth, Felix jammed the sock back into John’s mouth and twisted the leg even harder.
The hanger pressed deep into John’s flabby arm, then broke the skin. More blood poured out, covering the wire. Felix tried to twist the wire off, and the blood dripped out of the split flesh like a towel being wrung out.
No. No no no no...
“John. Listen to me.” Felix grabbed John’s cheeks, which had grown sickly pale. “You need to tell me where she is.”
“Help... me.”
“I’ll help you. But I need to you tell me.”
John’s eyes glazed over, and he seemed to be looking far away. “Help... me... Dwight...”
Dwight?
Felix felt the gun press against the back of his head. He knew who Dwight was. The Sheriff of Monk Creek had been of no help to Felix during his quest, refusing even the simplest of requests.
“Stand up. Hands over your head. Slow and easy, or I’ll have to use force, like I did with your friend outside.”
Felix felt his entire world crumbling. He lifted up his hands.
“This man tried to kill me, Sheriff. He’s got my fiancé. The one I told you about.”
“Is that so?”
The Sheriff grabbed Felix’s wrist, twisting his arm and forcing him face-first into the blood-soaked carpet. He felt the Sheriff put a foot on his back, and the handcuff go on.
“You have to believe me,” Felix said, his words blowing a bubble of John’s blood. “Please.”
“We’ll get to the truth of this whole situation.” The Sheriff gave his arm another rough twist, then slapped on the second cuff. “That’s for damn sure.”
“Help me, Dwight,” John said again. His voice had gotten very weak.
“You don’t look so good, Johnny. Where’s your styptic?”
“I dunno, Dwight. In my truck.”
“Shit lot of good it’s doin’ you there.”
Felix turned and looked up at the Sheriff. Though not as big as John, Dwight was a large, portly man, with a doughy face and a bald head. He was wearing a brown shirt and green slacks, his badge handing on his belt next to his gun. The Sheriff knelt next to John, and unwound the coat hanger.