Ebon Moon

by McDonald, Dennis

  A cocaine-driven rage burned inside. He wanted to put down his kickstand, grab the bat, and walk back to the car. He would then yank the bitch out from behind the wheel and beat her to death in front of everyone in the middle of Main Street.

  Too risky, he decided. If Jess saw me walking toward her, she would just slam the Camaro in reverse and drive away. I might lose her then. Best be patient and follow where she goes. Find a perfect time to get my revenge.

  He put the left turn signal on and waited.

  The traffic light went to green. He made the turn as the Camaro went straight. Popping the clutch, he raced halfway down the block, swung the bike around, and returned to the intersection. Again, he had to wait at the traffic light. The Camaro was two blocks away and soon would be out of sight. He thought about running the red light and glanced up and down Main Street. As if on cue, a sheriff patrol car cruised down the center of town toward the intersection. Blake’s heart sank. He didn’t dare pull out in front of the sheriff and risk having his plates read. In desperation, he looked to the right as the Camaro disappeared over a hill.

  Jess was gone for now. The sheriff represented a more serious threat. The patrol car slowed and the driver, a man with sandy-colored hair, glanced in his direction. Blake didn’t look at him directly but watched him through shades as the car continued through the intersection. A block farther, the patrol car turned off on a side street. Blake’s internal warning signal went off. The sheriff could be circling back to check on him. Small-town cops were very suspicious about strangers in their jurisdiction. He needed to get out of town but had to find where Jess had gone. Obviously, she was still in Hope Springs, which meant she was staying someplace other than jail.

  The light turned green and he went straight, turning down the first alley behind the stores along Main Street. He parked his bike behind a Dumpster and waited. Less than a minute passed before the sheriff’s car cruised past the mouth of the alley and continued down the street. Blake knew the longer he stayed in town, the more risk he took of encountering the sheriff.

  But where is Jess?

  He needed more information. Years of experience working undercover narcotics had taught him how to get it.

  Leaving the bike, he walked out of the alley and down the sidewalk in front of the storefronts. He scanned up and down the street. No sign of the sheriff. Very aware the long black jacket and sunglasses were conspicuous to the locals, Blake quickly stepped into the dollar store where Jess had exited a couple of minutes earlier. Behind the register, a young brown-haired woman rang up two old ladies. All three looked up with curious faces as he entered. Another thin blonde girl stocked product in the candy aisle. Blake decided to approach her; the clip-clop of his riding boot heels sounding on the floor tiles as he walked to the girl.

  She looked up, smacking on a piece of gum. “Can I help you?”

  “Maybe you can.” He paused to look at her name tag. “Debbie.”

  The girl smiled. “Sure, what do you need?”

  “Do you have any ChapStick? I’ve been riding all morning in the wind.”

  “I have some right here.” She walked down to the end of the aisle. “You’ve been riding in this weather?”

  “My Harley’s parked down the street.” Blake followed her and picked up a tube of cherry-flavored ChapStick from the shelf. “I wasn’t expecting the weather to turn so cold.”

  “Weatherman said it’s a record-breaking cold front for this time of year.”

  “That’s Oklahoma for you.”

  “It sure is.” Debbie smacked on her gum for a second and then asked, “So you got a Harley?”

  “Yes.”

  “I always wanted to ride on a Harley.”

  “I’m just passing through or I’d give you one.” Blake contemplated for a second on how to approach the next subject. In Chicago, he could offer money for information. He had plenty, thanks to the stash from the recently deceased Passion. A stranger passing out hundred-dollar bills and asking questions would raise too much attention in a small town. He needed subtlety. “Debbie, maybe you’re the one who can help me with something. When I was driving into town, I saw a young woman and a little girl just leave here. I could swear she went to school with my sister. I haven’t seen her for years. She was a family friend. Does she live around here?”

  “You mean Jessica?”

  “That’s her name.”

  “No. She’s new in town.”

  “The last I knew she was living in Tulsa,” Blake lied.

  “I don’t know where she came from, but I don’t like her, though.”

  “Oh?” Blake leaned in a step closer. “Why?”

  “She’s dating my man.”

  “Really? You’re kidding.”

  Debbie nodded her head. “She shows up in town, and the next thing I know, she’s going out with Dale Sutton. He’s the local sheriff here in Hope Springs.”

  “That sounds like Jess.” Blake smiled, causing one lip to crack. The iron taste of blood seeped into his mouth. “She always had a thing for cops.”

  “Your lip is bleeding,” Debbie pointed out.

  “Sorry,” Blake replied. “I guess I better pay for this ChapStick.”

  They walked together to the register. On the way, Blake spotted a shelf with hunting supplies. A set of camouflaged field binoculars caught his eye, and he picked them up as well. They could come in handy for spying on his whore of a wife and her new lover.

  “Do you know where Jessica is staying?” Blake asked.

  “Not sure,” Debbie said between smacks of her gum. “I know she starts work at Roxie’s Roadhouse tonight.”

  “Roxie’s?”

  “Yeah, it’s a karaoke bar about five miles out of town. Continue down Highway 133. You can’t miss it.”

  “If I’m still in the area I might drop by there.” He smiled. “Catch up on old times.”

  The brown-haired girl behind the checkout counter asked, “Did you find everything all right?

  “I sure did.” Blake put the ChapStick and binoculars down and pulled a fifty from his wallet. To Debbie, he said, “Thanks, you’ve been most helpful.”

  “You’re welcome.” She smiled.

  Blake paid for his purchase and walked out of the store. Jessica had only been gone for less than a week, and the bitch was already fucking another man. The local sheriff, no less! The sandy-haired man he had seen driving in the patrol car earlier at the light. No wonder she wasn’t in jail for stealing his Camaro. She had a get-out-of-jail-free card between her legs. He remembered what his old man taught him about women. They were all backstabbing whores.

  His boots pounded on the pavement as he returned to his bike. Anger throbbed at his temples and caused his vision to blur. He had to leave town, find a place to clear his head, and think of what to do next. With the sheriff involved with his wife, the longer he stayed, the more dangerous it became. He started the bike and turned south on Highway 133. A road sign said Morris lay seven miles ahead. He throttled up to the speed limit and checked the rearview to see if the sheriff was coming up behind him. No sign of the bastard.

  His purpose for coming to Hope Springs had changed since Jessica was fucking the local sheriff.

  Now, he had to kill them both.

  The Angel of Death smiled and leaned into the wind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Because of the homecoming football game, Morris High School only had a half-day on Friday. Elated for getting out early, Terry Newman followed the other students down the hall and through the exit doors. He didn’t catch sight of Becky Warren until he was out of the building. She stood at the curb, a teenage vision of beauty dressed in a tight sweater-and-jeans combo. Terry’s pulse quickened. All morning he had built up his nerve for what he was about to do next. With his heart pounding, he knew it was now or never. He swallowed hard and stepped up beside her.

  “Hey, Becky.”

  She half-turned with green eyes showing a hint of confusion. “What’s up?�
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  “Are you excited about the game tonight?” Stupid question, he told himself. She’s the cheer captain. Becky nodded but said nothing. He decided to press on. “I heard you got homecoming queen. You deserve it. You know there’s a dance afterward?” Another stupid question. He swallowed hard again, and his tongue felt like an old washrag. “I’m asking because I was wanting …” His voice began to break, but he wasn’t going to stop. “I was wondering if you’d like to go with me to the dance.”

  A look of surprise flashed in her eyes. “With you?”

  The next words he blurted out. “Sid, my friend, said I can borrow his truck so I’d be able to pick you up.”

  “I already have a date.”

  “You do?” He felt his heart drop into his shoes. She’s Becky Warren; of course, she’s got a date to the dance.

  “Sorry.” She turned away to look again down the street.

  “No problem,” he said, knowing it was time to make his exit. In fact, he wanted to run away like a screaming idiot. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  Someone grabbed him from behind and shoved him up against the chain-link fence surrounding the football training field. Brandon Harrison’s face filled his vision. Two other members of the football team gawked over the star quarterback’s shoulder. All wore maroon letter jackets.

  “Are you hitting on my girl?” Brandon grabbed the front of his shirt.

  “Let go!” Terry squirmed out of the hold. “I was just talking to her about the dance tonight.”

  “I’ve seen you checking out my girlfriend, you little dork.”

  “He didn’t mean any harm.” Becky’s voice came from behind the wall of maroon jackets surrounding him.

  “I better not catch you talking to her again.” Brandon pointed his finger.

  Terry tightened his fist. “Screw you.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said to go screw yourself.” He knew he was about to get an ass kicking, but he didn’t care.

  One of the jocks at his side chuckled. “I’d say he’s looking for a fight.”

  “You want some of me, dork?” Brandon shoved him hard once more against the fence.

  Terry replied by bouncing back and throwing his best right. The punch connected to Brandon’s jaw with the sound of meat being slapped. In an instant, the fight was on. Everything became a blur as he threw punches and took them in return. From out of nowhere, Coach Lawson appeared and yanked them both apart.

  “Goddammit, Brandon,” the coach growled. “You want to get suspended right before the big game tonight?”

  “This dork started it, Coach,” Brandon replied while dabbing at a bloody scratch on his cheek. A couple of other bruises on his face were evidence Terry had landed more than one punch to that area.

  “You shoved me first!” Terry snapped back with the taste of blood in his mouth from a split lip.

  “Stay away from my girlfriend, creep!”

  “Okay, you two,” Coach Lawson interjected. “I’m not going to turn this into the office. I can’t have my starting quarterback suspended for fighting right before homecoming tonight.” He nodded in Terry’s direction. “Just leave and go on home, son.”

  Terry spit out a stream of blood and wiped his lips with his sleeve. “Fine.”

  Putting his hands in his pockets, he walked away down the sidewalk. Screw them all, he thought to himself and spat more blood. At least I stood my ground against that moron Brandon Harrison. He looked up to see Sid’s gray truck rounding the corner. Screaming rock music seeping from inside the closed cab heralded the stoner’s arrival from half a block away. The truck pulled to a stop, and he climbed into the passenger seat.

  “What the fuck happened to you?” Sid asked, turning down the deafening music. “You look like shit.”

  “I got in a fight with Brandon Harrison.”

  “Let me guess, you tried to ask Becky out?”

  “You got it.” Terry opened the window and spat more blood.

  “I hope you gave more than you got.”

  “I think I did.”

  “That’s them up ahead, isn’t it?” Sid nodded down the street where Brandon, Becky, Coach Lawson, and the other two maroon morons stood talking to each other on the sidewalk.”

  “Yeah.”

  Sid buzzed down the driver window. “Take the wheel.”

  “What?” Terry asked, surprised, and grabbed the steering wheel.

  Sid undid the front of his pants. “Just watch.”

  Terry guided the truck down the road toward the group. As they drove near, Sid yanked down his jeans.

  “Hey, you assholes,” Sid shouted out the window. “Here’s one more for you to look at.”

  He mooned the surprised group, who stood in open-mouth shock at the sight of his skinny bare ass hanging out the driver window. Dropping back down into the seat, Sid flipped them a double bird and yelled, “Have a nice day!”

  They sped away in the truck howling like a couple of crazy lunatics. Laughing so hard that tears streamed down their faces, they pulled over into the Wal-Mart parking lot until they got their composure. When the laughter died down to the point that they could look at each other without going into another outburst, Terry said to Sid, “Thanks, man.”

  “I couldn’t let those douche bags dis you like that.”

  “You’re a good friend.” Terry smiled. His split lip had finally stopped bleeding.

  Sid looked out the front window toward the store. “You’re my only friend, dude.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  Sid shrugged. “No one else puts up with me, I guess.”

  Terry knew he was the only one who would hang out with the pimple-faced loner.

  “So what do we do now?” he asked.

  Sid nodded toward the retail store. “The other day when I was in Wal-Mart with Grandma, I saw a boxed DVD set of twenty horror movies. I got some cash, so why don’t we go buy it and spend the weekend getting high and watching crappy monster flicks.”

  “I got a better idea.”

  “What’s that?”

  Terry turned in the passenger seat toward Sid. “Why don’t we help Mr. Higgins hunt the werewolf?”

  “You’re shitting me. You don’t really think the thing is for real?”

  “He’s too old to do it by himself.”

  Sid shook his head. “He’s a fucking senile nutcase.”

  “Come on, dude. It’s a werewolf hunt. How cool is that?”

  Sid shrugged his skinny shoulders. “There’s a full moon tonight.”

  “So let’s do it?”

  Sid nodded. “Might be good for a few laughs.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Jasper Higgins spent the morning casting silver bullets but soon found the job was not easy. To get started, he cleaned the .38 pistol to make sure it would fire correctly. Next, he had to find some live ammo. Luckily, he discovered a near-empty box of rounds in a cabinet above his workbench. There were nine shells inside. He took the pistol out on his property and fired two of the rounds into a bale of hay to make sure the gun worked properly. That left him with seven rounds. He could go buy more, but he would have to drive some distance. If he bought his ammo locally, the seller might tip off the sheriff to his purchase. He was still under suspicion for murder. The seven rounds would have to do. If he couldn’t kill the werewolf with seven bullets, so be it.

  He returned to his workshop and contemplated his next step. He didn’t have to make the entire shell casing silver; only the bullet needed to be cast in the metal. To do this he had to separate the lead from the brass shell. He pulled the dusty cover off his old bullet reloader. Once he removed the bullet from the casing, he placed it on the workbench to examine it under a shop light. If he was going to make the same thing in silver, he needed a mold of the original bullet. He found a bag of plaster in his tool shed and mixed it in a bucket. Next he made a mold by placing the bullet in plaster. While waiting for the plaster to dry, he removed the other six bullets fr
om their casings.

  Fatigue began to set in, but the obsession to kill the monster who took his Emma drove him on. It was time to smelt the silver. He removed pieces of silverware from the luxurious leather holding case and placed them on the workbench. Firing up an acetylene torch, he applied the flame to a silver butter knife. The metal began to soften and liquefy. He poured the molten metal into the top of his plaster mold. The silver bubbled and disappeared into the hole. Once the metal cooled, he knocked apart the plaster mold and removed the casting with a pair of tongs. He further cooled the silver in a bucket of water. After filing away all metal flash, he pressed the bullet back into the live shell casing using his reloader. Once done, he removed the finished product and studied the silver bullet in the fluorescent shop light. The bullet needed to be machined to proper specifications using a metal lathe, but he had none. It was the best he could do under the circumstances. He didn’t know how accurate the round would be when fired, and he prayed it wouldn’t jam in the barrel. The time was twelve thirty.

  Exhausted, Jasper Higgins sat in a chair and felt doubt settle in. One bullet was all he had managed to produce. He looked down at his hands gnarled by arthritis. His knees hurt so badly he could hardly keep standing. What was next? Was he going to run around the countryside after nightfall to look for a monster in the dark with his one bullet? His revenge could only carry him so far. He was old and worn out. Letting out a weary breath, he contemplated going to the liquor store instead. Drowning in a bottle of Jack would have been easier than going on a foolish hunt for a beast in the night.