Insatiable Series Omnibus Edition (Books 1-3)

by Patrick Logan

  Don’t push too hard, Corina scolded herself.

  But hard was the only way she knew how to push it.

  “I need to know.”

  The massive man with the gold ‘Sheriff’ star on his left breast was tucked almost comically behind his small and inauspicious desk. After a brief pause, he looked up at her and sighed.

  “What are you doing here, Corina?”

  Corina’s response was immediate.

  “I’m here because of what I saw on the news—I told you that already. I’m here to find out what happened at the Wharfburn Estate—to my family. I deserve to know.”

  She stood with one hand on her hip, her right hip, the hip of her good leg, her backpack loosely slung over her shoulder.

  The sheriff’s face seemed to soften, and he turned to Mrs. Drew, who sat with Deputy Williams at the other desk, looking over some paperwork, likely deciding how they could get rid of Walter—trying to be political about it. After all, from what Corina could gather, Walter’s son was the one that had gone missing—the one that had gone to play in the Wharfburn Estate and had not returned.

  “Mrs. Drew and Andy, you think you can give us a moment?”

  Deputy Williams’ eyes flicked up from the papers and he looked at the sheriff suspiciously.

  “Boss?”

  Mrs. Drew turned next, and she did an even worse job of hiding her emotions. Her grey eyebrows were knitted across her brow, her thin lips pushed together tightly.

  Clearly, neither was interested in going back into the hallway where Walter was being held.

  Paul gave a subtle chin nod.

  “Just one minute. Please.”

  His deputy made a face as if to say ‘what gives?’, but he slowly rose to his feet. When the man went to grab Mrs. Drew by the elbow and gently guide her out of the room, the woman pulled her arm away. Keeping her eyes trained on the sheriff, she said, “I’m not senile. I can understand a simple command.”

  The sheriff shook his head.

  What the fuck is going on with everyone today?

  Only after the door was closed and the duo’s footsteps receded to the front of the station did the sheriff turn back to Corina.

  “Listen, I’m going to be honest with you,” he began, interlacing his fingers and placing them on the desk in front of him. “I never knew your dad or his brothers, but I know something about them. And—and it’s horrible what happened to them, it really is.”

  He bit the inside of his lip, debating whether or not he should add any more. The party line at this point—and always had been, ever since he had helped Deputy Coggins craft it—was that a serial killer had attacked and killed Mrs. Wharfburn, and then the sheriff… followed by a couple dozen townsfolk. The man, who remained nameless, faceless, had been killed by Deputy Coggins, and in the process, a fire had started, destroying most of the bodies and evidence.

  Convenient? Absolutely. Believable… maybe. Probably not. After all, the worst that Askergan County had to offer before that had been an incident between a student and a teacher at the local high school—and even that had turned out to be mostly a fabrication. But now six years had passed since the blizzard and the only ones who knew the truth—all of the truth, of which even the sheriff wasn’t privy—hadn’t broken their silence. There was no TMZ exposé on this, and their never would be, no matter how hard Nancy Whitaker pried. And so far the story had stuck—and had become a sort of urban legend.

  Stick to a story long enough, no matter how improbable, and a large subset of the masses would eventually accept it as fact. Just look at religion.

  Staring into Corina Lawrence’s bright green eyes, Sheriff White decided that recounting that lie to this girl—this young woman—would be a mistake. Besides, she could probably tell him more about what happened at the Wharfburn Estate than he could her—it was something in her face, the way her mouth was almost always curved in a slight sneer. It was the expression of someone who knew something, who knew that the world wasn’t always bubblegum and lollipops and unicorns.

  There was something out there. Something bad. Something old. Something that had nestled down in Askergan County eons ago and had taken up residence. And like an evicted tenant, it was reluctant to leave, no matter their efforts.

  “I didn’t come here for your sympathy,” Corina said coldly. “I came here for information, I came here for Deputy Bradley Coggins.”

  The sheriff frowned.

  “I told you before—he’s not here,” the sheriff raised his hands defensively. “He’s not hiding, he just went to take care of something.”

  Corina contemplated this. The burly sheriff was telling the truth about this, she was certain. Still, she had come for information, and she was damned if she would leave without it.

  “Like I told Mrs. Drew, I’ll wait for him to return.”

  Again the sheriff sighed.

  “You can’t wait here, Corina. In fact, I don’t think you should be here at all. It’s—it’s—”

  “—not safe?” Corina finished for him.

  The sheriff shook his head.

  “It’s not right for you here.”

  Right for me?

  Corina shook her head.

  “I’ll wait.”

  The sheriff slowly rose to his feet.

  He was a massive man, his thick barrel chest barely contained within his police shirt, and his biceps popped out of the tight sleeves like corn from a husk. Corina didn’t know if the man had intentionally stood at that moment to intimidate her, but she hoped not—for his sake. She had seen men larger than him fall. And she had felled her fair share.

  “You can’t wait here,” he repeated. “Please, Corina.”

  Corina, hand still on her hip, stood fast.

  “Tell me about the boy, I need to know what happened at the Wharfburn Estate.”

  I need to know about the children—about the palil.

  Her eyes suddenly twitched, and for a split second her grim expression faltered.

  It was the word that had affected her: palil.

  She had heard someone say it before, but she wasn’t sure who that person had been. But she knew that it was related to the house, to what had happened to her father.

  Why didn’t you take me, Dad? Why didn’t you take me and Mom with you?

  It wasn’t fair, of course, as it would have been impossible for Cody, even with Mom’s help, to take her and Henri from the house.

  But it wasn’t fair that she was here, that her father was no longer with them—that wasn’t fair either.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  The sheriff looked for a brief moment like he was nearing a breaking point, and upon mention of the boy, his eyes flicked toward Deputy Williams’ desk. Corina followed his gaze and spotted a manila envelope on the corner of the fiberboard desk.

  The sheriff cleared his throat. It was clear that he was struggling with something, almost as if he wanted to tell her more but just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  “I can’t tell you,” he said finally, his voice for the first time since the discussion began acquiring an authoritative tone. “I cannot reveal the details of an ongoing investigation. I’m sorry, but those are the rules.”

  Corina shuffled one step to her left toward the desk with the envelope.

  “You lost someone in the blizzard, too,” she said.

  She was taking a chance, of course, because she wasn’t even sure that this sheriff hadn’t been around when the blizzard had taken place—she hadn’t met him before. There was just something in his eyes, a far-off look when he spoke of the snow, that made her think that maybe he had been.

  When his face slackened, Corina suppressed the smile; she was right.

  She took another step toward the desk.

  “We all lost something that night, Corina. But that doesn’t mean I can help you here. Listen, I wish I could tell you more, but the truth is, I really don’t know anything else.” Once again he held up his massive hands palms out. “
Really.”

  Corina, now within arm’s reach of the envelope, nodded.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes,” the sheriff affirmed. “Now please, I will let Deputy Cogg—”

  A scream from the other room interrupted the sheriff and his head twisted in that direction. It was perfect timing. Corina used this split second to flip her backpack to her hip and reach over to the desk and shovel the envelope into it in one smooth motion. At the same time, she noticed a set of car keys on the desk right beside the envelope, and scooped those in the bag as well.

  The bag was on her shoulder again even before the sheriff had turned back to her.

  “You better leave,” he told her, his voice hushed. “You need to go.”

  Corina nodded and took a step forward and the sheriff did the same, always standing a protective three feet ahead of her as they quickly made their way out of the office.

  Walter Wandry was on his back in the center of the cell, his wide eyes aimed upward.

  When they approached, he turned his head on the cold cement floor and stared at Corina and the sheriff. His eyes were a deep red, the vessels in each so swollen that even his eyelids appeared puffy.

  “Where’s my boy, Sheriff? I need my boy.”

  The sheriff guided Corina toward the half door that led to the small waiting area.

  “Get up,” he instructed the junkie in a stern voice. “Get on your feet.”

  Walter didn’t acknowledge the instruction.

  “Where’s my boy, Sheriff? I need to have his body.”

  Corina had taken two steps toward the front door when she froze.

  Body?

  Although she had heard the despicable human in the cell yell this before, it seemed to take on new meaning and it shocked her again.

  “I need the body for insurance, you fucking pig!”

  Even the sheriff seemed shocked at the man’s callousness in talking about his son, and it was a moment before he reached to his hip and grabbed the ring of keys that hung there.

  “Get up!” he shouted.

  Walter ignored him and turned his face back to the ceiling.

  “Where is my boy?”

  17.

  Coggins finished what was left of the scotch in his glass and stared at the empty vessel.

  He couldn’t believe it, despite having lived most of it; the whole story. The sheriff—his friend, his mentor—and Jared’s brother. It was just so fucked up. And now this about the crab-fuckers. What did the boy—Kent—call them? Crackers? Yeah, crackers. Fine, as good a name as any.

  Crackers.

  “That’s it,” he said with a sigh. “God, it feels fucked up talking about this.”

  Jared finished his own scotch.

  “Yeah,” Jared admitted. “I haven’t told a soul.”

  Coggins raised his eyes to look at the thin man across from him.

  “You really think it’s back?” he asked, not sure if the question was for him or for Jared.

  Jared looked at his glass, and almost raised it to his lips again before realizing that he had just finished it.

  “I think so.” He hesitated. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if it was ever even here. Maybe.” He looked away. “I, I saw—”

  It was clear to Coggins that although he had bared his soul, this man was still holding something back. Something that had been—was—eating him up inside.

  “I—”

  Something suddenly smacked against the front window with such force that the glass bowed inward.

  Coggins immediately jumped to his feet.

  “What was that?”

  Jared also rose, but he staggered and almost fell back into his chair. Clearly, the alcohol had gotten to him, even though he’d only had half as many glasses as Coggins.

  “I don’t know,” he answered, grasping the back of the chair to remain steady.

  Coggins quickly made his way to the window by the front of the house, his right hand hovering over the butt of his gun. Jared followed.

  The deputy pressed his head against the glass and looked down, trying to see the grass below. The angle made it impossible, though. He moved his head more to one side, but the new angle didn’t help.

  “A bird?” Jared proposed with a shrug.

  Coggins said nothing, content in just standing there with his face against the glass, trying to see if whatever had struck the glass had fallen to the ground.

  “Could be a bird,” Jared persevered, but Coggins hushed him.

  They stood in silence for a few seconds.

  “You hear that?” Coggins finally asked.

  Jared shook his head.

  “No—”

  Coggins hushed him again, and pulled his head a few inches away from the glass.

  The cracking sound, like somebody rhythmically cracking their knuckles, became louder.

  “There,” he whispered.

  Jared made a face and shrugged, clearly indicating that he hadn’t heard that sound. He took a step forward and leaned his thin face toward the glass.

  A sudden loud snap erupted from below the window and Coggins immediately swept his arm out, pushing Jared behind him while at the same time drawing his gun.

  A round, dinner plate-sized disc flew into view and landed flush on the window with a thunk.

  Coggins took a step backward and dropped into a crouch. He used his arm to push Jared even further behind him, and the man’s hot, scotch-laced breath was now on his ear.

  Coggins almost fired, but he was reminded of a time when he had shot a random dog, a poor boxer, and he held fast. There was no danger here; at least not yet, not when the glass was intact.

  The cracker pressed the underside of its body flush against the glass, its six knobby appendages spreading out in a star pattern. Its underside was a milky white, and in the center was a puckering orifice filled with tiny, sharp teeth.

  “What the fuck is that?” Jared whispered, his hands now on Coggins’ shoulders.

  Coggins didn’t answer right away.

  As he watched, the cracker’s legs flexed at the thickened joints, the points on the end of each trying desperately to grasp the smooth surface. A viscous fluid, like a white jelly, started to form on the edges of the small mouth, which seemed to act as a glue, holding the body in place as the arms slowly curled backward—double-jointed?—away from the glass. They cracked as the six joints articulated, each movement accompanied by a distinct sound.

  And that, my friend, is why Kent Griddle called them crackers.

  Without warning, another one of those singular cracks sounded—this one much louder than the noise produced by the individual joints—and the legs all fired forward at once, their points aimed directly at the glass.

  Jared screamed and Coggins used his forearm to shield his face and eyes.

  The glass bowed but held.

  Coggins pulled his arm away just as the thing’s legs rebounded off the glass, and whatever the substance from its mouth was—it had to be its mouth—that had held it in place bubbled and the cracker slid down and out of sight. In its wake, it left a nasty white smear on the otherwise clean pane.

  Coggins took a deep breath, trying to will his heartrate into slowing. When he went to stand, he felt all of Jared’s weight pushing down his back, and found himself locked in a crouch.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered over his shoulder.

  When the man’s grip remained steadfast, he repeated the words. This time, the man let go and Coggins stood. Then he reached back and pulled Jared to his feet with him.

  “What the fuck was that?” the man nearly screeched, his eyes wide.

  “One of the crackers,” Coggins replied, turning his gaze back to the window. In addition to the milky streak from the thing’s mouth, there were six deep indentations in the glass where the claws had struck. “Fucking crackers.”

  The deputy squinted and scanned the lawn, searching the area for more of the parasites. When he failed to find any, and the noise from the crac
ker had momentarily ceased, he risked turning back to Jared’s frightened face.

  “Do you have any guns?” he asked.

  Jared’s face twisted as he thought about it for a moment.

  “I think I have a couple of old shotguns that my dad used to go hunting with.”

  Coggins nodded.

  “But I don’t have any permits,” Jared added.

  Coggins smirked.

  “That’s all right; don’t ask, don’t tell. And is there a culvert around here? Behind the house, maybe?”

  Jared made a queer face.

  “Yeah,” he began hesitantly. “All the houses along this strip have them. They were used to get cows from this side of the road to the other side without crossing it, way back when. Why?”

  Deputy Coggins nodded, his mind returning to earlier in the day when he and the sheriff had nearly been struck by a cracker in the culvert.

  “Because I think I know where these little fuckers are hiding.”

  Jared’s eyes widened once more.

  “There are more of them?”

  The expression that crossed Jared’s features when Coggins nodded was difficult to interpret. It wasn’t fear; not quite. If Jared was anything like Coggins, which was becoming more and more apparent the more time Coggins spent with him, then fear was something that had been bastardized by their collective experience in the blizzard. Shock, alarm, surprise, those were all intact, but fear? No, it wasn’t fear—it was something else. Something close to fear, a cousin or a step-brother, maybe.

  It was vengeance.

  “Go get the guns,” Coggins instructed, his hand instinctively squeezing the butt of his own handgun.

  The man nodded briskly and turned, his previously wide eyes now narrowed to but slits.

  “And Jared?” Coggins asked. The thin man with the dark eyes and cleft in his chin turned. “It’s back.”

  Jared nodded.

  “It’s back, and this time we’re gonna kill it for good.”

  18.

  Pete Devereaux put the cigarette to his lips and inhaled deeply. The warm smoke tickled the tiny hairs in his throat before swirling in his lungs.