Insatiable Series Omnibus Edition (Books 1-3)

by Patrick Logan

  This time, he pushed with all of his strength and a small puff of colored air rose to meet him.

  What the hell?

  “Hey, Andrew,” White shouted. “Come take a look at this!”

  Deputy Paul White bent onto one knee and peered down the length of the branch into what was now a much wider hole.

  Is that—pink? Why the hell is the bottom of the branch pink?

  Deputy White’s head snapped up. He thought he heard something, an airy voice carrying on the wind, something that sounded like—

  “Hey, Andrew, you say something?”

  —Come.

  End

  Crackers

  Insatiable Series Book 2

  Patrick Logan

  Prologue

  Sheriff Paul White hesitated before opening the door. There was a strange energy in the air, a thickness to the atmosphere that made breathing a less than rudimentary task.

  With the palm of his large black hand resting against the wooden door, he inhaled deeply, filling his considerable chest with vast quantities of air.

  It’s happening again.

  The thought was odd, abstract, something that seemed wholly inappropriate at a time like this.

  But the thought had been real, and it scared him.

  The tingling in his fingers intensified as adrenaline, beginning as only a minor flush when he had first approached the room, started to diffuse throughout his entire body.

  It had been six years since he had last felt this way—six whole years. An amazing feat considering that six years ago was the time that he had become the sheriff of Askergan County. And in all of that time since, learning the job on the fly, dealing with drunken idiots almost every weekend, and even handling a rash of break-ins, he had not felt a rush like this.

  No, this sensation had been previously reserved for the blizzard and the horrible events that had taken place out at the Wharfburn Estate.

  And now… this.

  Another deep breath, and the sheriff finally pushed the door wide, trying not to let the fear that coursed through him show on his face.

  “Good morning,” he said curtly, observing the two figures sitting at the small metal table by the back of the square, ten-by-ten-foot room.

  The man on the left, the one that looked to be in his late thirties or early-forties, had his arm wrapped around a boy of no more than sixteen years.

  Greg and Kent Griddle, the sheriff affirmed based on the phone conversation that had taken place earlier.

  “Morning, Sheriff,” Greg replied.

  The man went to stand, with the obvious intention of shaking hands, but the sheriff stopped him by reaching across the table and taking his hand before he had fully risen. The boy looked to be on the verge of a breakdown, and Paul thought it best if the boy’s father kept his arm around him for comfort.

  “Please, don’t stand.”

  Even though the boy hadn’t raised his head since the sheriff had entered, Sheriff White could tell that he had been crying. Even staring at the thick thatch of red hair that covered the top of his head, he could tell that the boy had shed many a tear this day; it was in the way his shoulders were slumped, how his hands were somehow loosely and firmly clasped at the same time, the way his breathing was hitched and uneven, and how the tops of his ears were a scarlet red.

  “Greg Griddle,” the boy’s father said, drawing the sheriff’s attention back. “We spoke on the phone earlier?”

  The sheriff nodded.

  “And this must be your son, Kent?” Paul asked, trying to elicit a response from the boy.

  Kent failed to look up even at the mention of his name. Gregory turned to the boy and nudged him lightly with his elbow.

  “Kent?”

  When the boy still didn’t respond, his father pulled his arm off of him with the intention of grabbing his shoulders in both hands. Maybe shake the life back into him.

  Sheriff White quickly intervened by shaking his head.

  Don’t lose him, the sheriff tried to telepathically message Gregory. I need to hear his story.

  Instead, the sheriff, still standing over the table, leaned in close and said, “Kent, I am here to help. You don’t have to be scared anymore.”

  Paul wasn’t sure if it was the third mention of the boy’s name or the word scared that persuaded Kent to raise his head. When he finally looked up, he stared directly at the sheriff.

  He was right, the boy had been crying, which was obvious by his raw, red-rimmed eyelids and by how the skin beneath his eyes was dry and chapped.

  Kent opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it before words could escape him.

  This time, Gregory spoke for him.

  “We were on vacation, a fishing trip…”

  The sheriff raised a hand and politely indicated that the man should stop talking. Then he turned back to Kent, who had reverted to staring at his clasped hands again.

  “Thank you, Gregory, but I think I should hear this directly from Kent.”

  Gregory bit his lip and looked torn, and the sheriff quickly added, “If that’s okay by you, of course.”

  The handsome man with light brown hair nodded slowly, silently offering the sheriff permission to continue.

  Good.

  Sheriff White needed to hear what happened from the boy, not through his proxy. And, as a minor, he was bound to the wishes of the man’s father. Thankfully, Gregory Griddle seemed like a reasonable man, a concerned father, who also sought the answers that niggled at the sheriff.

  Leaning forward again, Sheriff White turned his attention back to the boy with the thick red hair.

  “Kent?”

  His tone was soft, inviting.

  “First of all, Kent, I want to thank you for coming in here today. What you’ve done is very brave.”

  The boy’s shoulders twitched—shrugged, maybe?—and the sheriff was encouraged to continue.

  “And I want you to know that you aren’t in trouble. Your father told me about the drinking, and I assure you that I don’t care about that. And I also want you to know that you aren’t a prisoner here; as far as I am concerned, you have done nothing wrong—you can leave at any time. But the more you tell me, the better our chances of finding your friend.”

  Kent visibly trembled at the word ‘friend’, yet his head remained bowed.

  The sheriff turned quickly to the boy’s father. The man was pale and had a vacant look in his eyes. Although Paul didn’t have any children of his own, he thought he understood what the man was going through; it was plainly etched on his features. Gregory Griddle experienced his son’s pain as if it were his own, and he felt responsible for it.

  And that said nothing about how he had been the legal guardian of the other boy when he had gone missing.

  For going on six years now, Paul White had been the sheriff of Askergan County, and he had been a deputy and officer in the same district for many years before that. And during all of that time, he had never heard a story like the one that Gregory Griddle had told him over the phone. Sure, Askergan had had its fair share of kids who ran away from home, trying to flee from an abusive father, or to shirk the often overwhelming responsibilities that came with puberty.

  But nothing like this.

  Sheriff Paul White had never heard a story like this… except for maybe once, when a similar tale had been woven by his then partner, Deputy Bradley Coggins.

  Only once, after the blizzard.

  And now this tale, with the Wharfburn Estate once again being the focal point.

  An image of the massive house with the blackened doorway, reeking of burnt hair and charred wood, assaulted his senses with such ferocity that he nearly pulled away from the table and stood.

  The sheriff fought the urge by leaning even more heavily on the table, feeling the cold metal dig into his meaty palms.

  Focus.

  “Kent, the more you can tell me about Tyler’s disappearance, the better.”

  The mention of his friend
’s name finally encouraged the boy to lift his head again.

  Fresh tears glistened on his round cheeks.

  “You want to know about the house? About what I saw at the house?”

  The boy’s voice was hoarse and his expression blank. Paul was no psychologist, but to him it appeared as if the boy had already erected a wall in his mind—a wall to keep the past out, to protect himself against the horrors creeping on the other side.

  It all seemed so familiar to the sheriff.

  Another flash of the Wharfburn Estate, but he forced it away before it took hold.

  Déjà vu.

  “No, not the house, Kent,” the sheriff said softly.

  Ever since he had entered the room, he had been leaning on the table. But now that Kent looked like he was going to open up, he pulled a chair back from the table and slowly took a seat.

  “Let’s start at the beginning; tell me everything from even before you made it to the lake.”

  It would be hard, he knew, for the boy to recount the entire tale, especially if what Gregory had told him over the phone was anything like the real thing. But Paul knew a thing or two about interrogation, and even though this constituted more of an interview than anything else, the same rules applied: one, get the boy talking, try to grasp the boy’s state of mind even prior to what had, or allegedly had, happened; and, two, pay close attention to the details of the story leading up to the event. It was his experience that when people made up stories—lied—the details flanking the event in question were unrehearsed, jagged and unkempt; this was a telltale sign that the story was a lie.

  Kent nodded slowly and cleared his throat. The sheriff gently pushed a glass of water closer to the boy.

  “Have a sip, take your time,” he instructed.

  It wasn’t so much that the sheriff thought the boy was lying—shit, if this was all an act, give the kid an Oscar right now—but that maybe he had been confused.

  Or impaired.

  Kent Griddle took a sip of water and then placed it back on the table. His face lowered, his eyes finding whatever crisscrossing lines around his knuckles that he found so interesting.

  Then he started to speak, and the sheriff shifted his weight from his palms to his forearms as he leaned in close and listened.

  1.

  ”You almost ready, champ?”

  Kent Griddle shoved his sleeping bag into the trunk with two hands, then watched as it slowly regained its shape. He stood there for a moment, scowling as the dark blue fabric continue to swell until there was more hanging out of the trunk than inside.

  It’s never going to fit.

  “Almost,” he replied, bringing a hand to the back of his head and tugging lightly at his short red hair.

  It’s never going to fit.

  He stared at the obstinate sleeping bag, trying to will it inside the trunk. When that didn’t work, he leaned around the side of the car.

  “Dad?”

  Gregory Griddle pulled his sunglasses down his small nose and stared at his son through the side mirror. There was a glint of humor in his pale blue eyes.

  “What’s up?” he replied, running a hand through his medium-length light brown hair. When his hand fell away, his hair returned to exactly as it had been before: neatly parted on the left side, the thick, wavy top perfectly imperfect. He was a man of small features—a small nose, narrow chin, eyes that bordered on beady—but the collective sum was greater than its parts, creating a cohesive look that one wouldn’t hesitate to refer to as attractive.

  A bead of sweat formed on Kent’s forehead, slowly becoming a drop before tracing a lazy line down the side of his cheek. He quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  “I don’t—” he began, but the sleeping bag started to roll out of the trunk, and he quickly shoved it back in before it fell to the ground.

  “God damn it,” he muttered.

  His father, still inspecting him through the side mirror, laughed.

  “Don’t sweat it, champ. Either put it in the trunk or toss it in the backseat—doesn’t matter.”

  Kent scrunched his nose, the freckles that marked the bridge seeming to coalesce into a single frustrated smudge. But then his boyish features relaxed and he nodded, more to himself than to his father, and he pulled the dark blue sleeping bag out of the trunk. He gave the piece of plush fabric a look laced with venom, then glanced to the backseat, trying hard to make up his mind.

  Backseat or trunk?

  Gregory leaned further out the window, his armpit gripping the doorframe.

  “Just make up your mind and let’s get on the road!”

  Kent glared at the sleeping bag clutched in his left hand. It looked like it would fit in the trunk, like it should fit; there was more than enough room for it squish on top of the cooler and tent.

  Why don’t you fit?

  “Just throw it in the backseat! Why do you let these things get to you?”

  Kent looked up quickly, worried that he would see annoyance plastered on his father’s face. But Greg wasn’t even looking at him; instead, he was staring off into the distance, thumping the pad of his thumb on the car door, his head bobbing to imaginary music.

  Fucking sleeping bag.

  Kent slammed the trunk closed and then tossed the sleeping bag in the backseat as he had been instructed.

  “Relax,” Gregory said, pushing his sunglasses back up his nose as his son opened the passenger door and climbed inside. “This is supposed to be fun,” he added, reaching over and tousling Kent’s short red hair. “Don’t pout—makes you look like a baby.”

  Kent made a face.

  “And don’t sulk—makes you look like a girl.”

  Kent tried to direct his scowl at his father, but the man’s wide grin made it impossible for him to remain angry.

  Greg laughed and turned the key.

  The car cleared its throat and growled to life.

  2.

  They arrived at Tyler’s place less than an hour later, when the sun had nearly reached its apex, thick waves of unrelenting heat beating down on them. The interior of the car was sweltering and Kent’s T-shirt clung uncomfortably to his body. Every few minutes, he peeled it away from his skin and let it go—it immediately snapped back, slapping his chest with an audible thwack.

  “Kent, seriously, you need to relax. Smile a little.”

  Kent looked over at his father and gave him a terrible fake smile. Gregory shook his head, but his grin lingered.

  A door slammed, drawing their attention to the apartment building in front of them. A slender boy with a shaved head stepped out from a dark brown door, one of countless identical doors marking every fifteen or so feet of the building. Like Kent, Tyler was sixteen years old, but unlike Kent, he looked much older. The boy had small, dark eyes, the color of which matched the stubble on his shaved head. Although his face was too narrow, his eyelids too thick—tired-looking—he might have been handsome had it not been for the thick pink scar that ran from the outside of his right eye to just below his lower lip. The boy raised a skinny arm that poked out from a sleeveless Metallica T-shirt that was two sizes too big. In the hand that remained at his side was a small overnight bag.

  “Kent, you want the front seat or backseat?” Gregory asked, turning to face his son.

  Kent turned toward the backseat. More than half of the seating area was taken up by three fishing rods and two tackleboxes. And then there was the damn sleeping bag.

  He frowned.

  “Well?” Gregory urged.

  Kent looked back at Tyler, who was making his way slowly to the car. He was wearing a pair of jeans and untied high-tops—he was going to melt.

  “Hey, hey!” Tyler hollered, his pace quickening. “My boy, Kent!”

  Kent, still trying to decide which seat his father wanted him to take, opened the door and stepped out into the hot sun. He squinted in the bright light and brought the blade of his hand up to his forehead to shield his eyes.

  “What’s up?�
�� he asked tentatively.

  Gregory leaned out of his window.

  “What’s up, Tyler?” he shouted. “C’mon, get in! The fish will be all gone by the time we get there!”

  Tyler smiled broadly, the scarred half of his face not rising quite as high as the other, making it look like the two halves didn’t quite line up.

  He bumped knuckles with Kent.

  “I got shotgun in this sweet ride?” he asked, the grin still plastered on his face.

  “Fine,” Kent answered, and Tyler gave him a soft punch on the shoulder.

  “’Atta boy.”

  As Kent pulled the front seat forward and climbed into the back, forcing the fishing paraphernalia to the other side to make enough room to sit, Tyler ran his thumb over the wheel well of the royal blue ’72 Chevelle.

  “Man, I love this car,” he said in near awe. “Damn, Gregory, this is one sweet ride.”

  Gregory chuckled.

  “Thanks, kid.”

  Tyler clicked the seat into place and climbed in, jamming the back of the seat into Kent’s shins.

  “That all you brought?” Kent’s dad asked, indicating the small black bag in Tyler’s hands with his chin.

  “All I need,” Tyler replied, pushing his seat back even further. “Only thing I’m missing is a cooler to keep all the fish I’m gonna catch in.”

  A smirk formed on Gregory’s small mouth.

  “Here, Kent,” Tyler said, forcing the bag into the back. “Keep this back there, would ya? Need me some legroom.”

  When Kent made no move to take the bag, Tyler’s smile grew and he tossed it on top of the fishing rods.

  “Aw, don’t pout, Kent,” Tyler said. Even from behind, he could see his father’s ears move ever so slightly; he was smiling too.

  Kent’s pout become a scowl as they pulled out of the parking lot and made their way back onto the road.

  They had been driving in silence for fifteen minutes, content on listening to the air rushing through the open windows, when Tyler turned to the backseat.

  “So Kent, why—?”