Ebon Moon

  He spotted Sam digging a post hole in the hard dirt where a broken barbed wire fence section lay curled on the ground. Sheriff Sutton halted the patrol car, slid out, and put on his cap.

  “Morning, Sam. You wanted to see me?”

  “Sure did, Sheriff.” The tall farmer wiped his brow and nodded. “Look what happened to my fence last night.”

  “Somebody cut your wire?” Sheriff Sutton asked, spotting Sam’s hunting rifle leaning against a nearby tree stump.

  “They didn’t cut it. They tore it the hell up. I got to a rewire a whole section plus put in two fence posts.”

  “Did you lose any cattle?”

  “All are accounted for. I did a head count this morning. They’ve been refusing to come back here lately.” Sam picked up a fence post and planted it in the freshly dug hole. “Who do you think tore my fence up?”

  “I don’t know, but they drove a motorcycle to get here.” Sheriff Sutton kneeled and pointed to some tire treads in the red dirt. He sniffed the crisp air and detected the familiar scent of something he had come to know so well over his years as a Wolfkin. Human blood. Faint but still noticeable. His stomach rolled with hunger from the smell. “I followed these tire tracks in the dirt all the way up here.”

  “I heard a loud motorcycle last night,” Sam replied.

  “I think it was a trespassing hunter who broke down your fence.”

  “Why? He could have just as easily slipped through it.” Sam picked up a broken strand of barbed wire. “Check this out, Sheriff. What left these pieces of black fur on my fence?”

  Sheriff Sutton studied the broken barbed wire. Tufts of black fur still clung to several of the barbs. The undeniable odor of a Wolfkin wafted in his nostrils. He knew the scent. It was Collin’s.

  “Is that dog fur?”

  “Could be.”

  “You had a problem here last night? Something about a big dog?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I just talked to Jess.”

  “We had more than a big dog sniffing around last night,” Sam replied, removing his work gloves to pick up his rifle. “I’ll show you.”

  Sam led him into the wooded area on the other side of the fence.

  “How long has this been going on?” Sheriff Sutton asked as he walked through the dead underbrush and leaves.

  “Something’s been spooking the livestock the last few nights. It’s why I carry the rifle.” Sam stopped and pointed to the ground. “I found this here.”

  A pair of field binoculars lay in the dead leaves. Sheriff Sutton crouched. “I’ve seen deer hunters use those, Sam. Your trespasser probably dropped it when chased by the dog.”

  “Then maybe you can explain this, Sheriff.”

  Sam led the way another twenty-five yards through the underbrush toward the banks of Skeleton Creek. He stopped and pointed to an aluminum bat lying in the brush.

  “Found that here this morning, too.”

  Sheriff Sutton adjusted his gun belt and knelt to get a closer look.

  “I have to admit this is strange, but teens like to party along the creek bed. I have found all kinds of weird stuff—beer cans, pot pipes, used condoms, anything you can think of.”

  “They brought a pair of binoculars with them as well?” Sam shook his head no. “I think someone was watching the farm last night.”

  “That could be. Jess might have had a stalker follow her home last night. She was assaulted leaving the bar by a drunk Brody Carlson acting stupid again. After she left, someone nearly bashed in Brody’s brains. The same person could have followed Jess home and dropped the bat here. This could be the weapon used in that attack.”

  “Did he leave the tooth marks in the aluminum, too? Can you explain that?”

  He leaned closer to take a better look. Deep fang marks pitted the aluminum of the bat.

  “What do you think made those tooth marks, Sam?”

  Sam gave him a hard look. “Is there such a thing as a werewolf, Sheriff?”

  Sheriff Sutton stood. “You’ve been talking to Terry Newman and that Granger kid out of Morris? I know they were passing out some stupid flyer at Dot’s.”

  “They said Jasper Higgins shot a werewolf last night at the Grosslin farm. He used silver bullets, too. They also claim the one that killed Emma Higgins is still running around loose in the area.”

  “A couple of stoner kids pass the idea to Mr. Higgins that a werewolf killed his wife. The old man is so desperate to convince himself he’s innocent of murder he’ll jump on any story. That’s how this werewolf thing got started. Next it’ll be Bigfoot and alien abductions responsible. No wonder they all were at Elmer Grosslin’s last night.”

  “I saw something last night scratching at the back door of the trailer. I shot at it while it ran away.”

  “Was it a big black dog?” Sheriff Sutton removed a pair of latex gloves from his back pocket.

  “It was hard to see in the dark, but I caught a flash of it when the rifle fired. It was big and moved fast.”

  “I’ve heard reports of a rogue black bear over in the next county.”

  “I’ve farmed for twenty-some years on this land and never caught wind of a bear in these parts,” Sam replied. “What’s with the gloves, Sheriff?”

  “The bat could be linked to a possible assault. I’m taking it as evidence.” Sheriff snapped on the latex gloves. “Is that the rifle you shot last night?”

  Sam nodded. “This is my old trusty 30-30 Marlin. Dad gave it to me.”

  “Good-looking rifle, Sam. Can I hold it?”

  “Sure,” Sam replied, handing it over. “She’s cocked and ready, but the safety is on.”

  He hefted it to his shoulder. “Nice firearm. Not too heavy. Good clean sights.” Sheriff Sutton’s finger slipped down to the trigger and hesitated. He could kill Sam now. Make it look like a terrible hunting accident. The Pack would be protected from exposure, but for how long? One day? Two days? Thanks to Collin’s obsession with Megan, everything was beginning to unravel beyond his ability to fix. He fought down the temptation to commit another murder and returned the rifle to Sam’s hands. “She’s a beauty.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff. Do I have your permission to shoot anybody snooping on my land?”

  “Just make sure it’s Jess’s stalker and not some teenage kid.”

  “I will.”

  Sheriff Sutton picked up the aluminum bat. “I’m going to have this dusted for fingerprints and run it through the system. Find out who it belongs to.”

  “Okay.”

  Together they walked back to the broken fence. Sam put down his rifle against the stump and slipped on his work gloves.

  Sheriff Sutton said, “I’d keep this between us at the moment, Sam. I wouldn’t get the others all worked up until we know what we’re dealing with here.”

  “Okay, Sheriff.”

  “I’ll talk to you later.”

  Crossing to the trunk of his patrol car, Sheriff Sutton opened it and threw in the aluminum bat. Next he stripped off the latex gloves and slammed it shut. His shitty day was getting worse. Much worse. He started the engine and waved to Sam before turning toward the blacktop. Picking up the radio, he called dispatch.

  “Wanda here.”

  “It’s Sheriff Sutton.”

  “Hello, Dale.”

  “Wanda, I want you to find out what you can on Chicago Police Officer Blake Lobato.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Blake Lobato’s body was on fire. Every nerve screamed in agony. He thrashed around on sweat-soaked sheets to the tune of a Mexican radio thumping through the thin motel walls from the room next door. He had no idea how much time passed in his feverish delirium. The waking world competed with vivid dreams, giving him no bearing on reality. Sometimes he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling fan going in circles overhead. For how long, he could not even guess. Once, he tried to stand, but waves of disorientation forced him to fall back on the bed.

  He closed his eyes and succumb
ed to the intense dreams again. Visions came of running through a deep forest with trees so massive they stood like towers against a starry sky. Shadowy mountains, unrecognizable and alien, loomed in the distance. He had never seen such a landscape before. A huge full moon, bright and magnificent, shone silver through the leaves overhead and lit the forest floor. He was running close to the ground, scanning left and right. Hunting for something, but what, he couldn’t fathom. His breath came in deep panting grunts. Stopping to lean against a tree, he noticed his fur-covered hands ending in black hooked claws.

  He continued through the primeval forest, but not alone. A pack of wolves had joined in, beautiful creatures with coats of gray, white, and silver in the cascading misty moonlight. They ran along his side, and he seemed to be joined with the canines deep within his soul. The beauty of this realization brought tears of joy to his eyes, replacing the years of violence, pain, abuse, and addiction he had suffered throughout his life. His restless spirit had found home.

  The pack stopped.

  A large elk stood in a moonlit clearing. Displaying a full rack of antlers, the beautiful animal bent its head to munch on the undergrowth. It paused. Its nose quivered as it sniffed the night air for danger, unknowing that in the shadow of the great tree, death waited. Blake sensed the fear coming in waves from the animal and heard the thunder of its heart, the blood pulsing through its veins. The pack of wolves gathered silently about him. One with fur was as white as snow and looked in his eyes. He comprehended an unspoken message from the ancient wolf.

  Kill!

  He pounced from the shadows, leaping through the air to come down upon the animal’s back. Claws and fangs … his claws and fangs … tore flesh and muscle. The elk tried to bolt, but his maw sunk deep into the animal’s throat and hot blood spurted into his mouth. The great elk collapsed to the forest floor. He continued mauling the creature as it trembled and gasped its last breath. Pulling bloody strips of sinew and raw meat from the carcass, he swallowed it down. The other wolves moved in to join the feast. On a nearby tuft of grass, the white wolf raised its head and howled against the full moon.

  Blake snapped opened his eyes. The dream had been so real he was once again unsure of his surroundings. He focused on the revolving ceiling fan overhead and realized he was still in the cheap motel room. Licking his chapped lips, he tasted salt from his sweat; his mouth parched to the point his throat burned when he swallowed. He was thirsty but too weak to rise from the bed to get a drink from the bathroom sink. How much time had passed? Morning sunlight blazed against the curtains of the picture window in the room signaling he had survived the night. The incessant Mexican radio from the adjoining room added a surreal touch to his surroundings, as if the motel was actually someplace south of the border.

  He turned his attention to the crude towel compress pressed against the bite wound in his shoulder. Something moved beneath the bandage like a thing alive. He lifted the bloody cloth to check the wound. The bleeding had stopped and the trauma wasn’t as severe as the night before. The skin throbbed and pulsed around the bite marks.

  What is happening to me?

  He laid his head back on the pillow. Somehow his shoulder flesh had knitted together. Though, he knew it was impossible, his mind was too fatigued to ponder the fact. He breathed slowly and sensed the room around him. On the edge of his perception, whispering voices and vague shadows shuffled about the room. Again he was too tired to deal with these new phenomena. He closed his eyes and wavered on the edge of sleep.

  “Blakey,” a strong voice spoke a name he hadn’t heard since childhood.

  He reopened his eyes and gasped. His father dressed in his police uniform sat in the cigarette burn-pitted chair beside the bed. He stared at him with dead white eyes. Blood leaked from the bullet hole in the side of his head and dripped on his blue dress shirt.

  “Blakey,” he repeated.

  “Dad?” he choked out in shock.

  “Do you remember what fun we used to have?” His head tilted one way causing more blood to leak out. “The game I used to play with your mother? Put one bullet in the pistol and spin the chamber. It was fun, wasn’t it, son? Do you remember, Blakey?”

  “Go away.”

  “Your wife’s a backstabbing whore, Blakey. You know what you do to a whore like that?” He tightened his dead fists. “You teach her a lesson. A severe lesson. Just like I did with your mom. You force her to play the game. That’s what you do, son. Put one bullet in the chamber and spin. Show her what the old man taught you, Blakey.”

  “Leave me alone. You ruined my life.”

  The figure and the voice faded like mist in the dim light.

  Blake closed his eyes and tried to calm his pounding heart. He wasn’t certain if he had dreamed the apparition or not. More voices whispered to him, and he sensed movement coming from the bathroom. He gazed toward the door where a shadowy figure formed. The stranger stepped forward into the dim light. Again, Blake froze in shock and blinked his eyes in disbelief. Tyree Williams, the black teenager he had murdered last year in a back alley on the south side of Chicago, now stood in the motel room wearing his gang colors and sporting bling of pure gold around his neck. Three bullet exit wounds were still visible in his chest. His dead white eyes contrasted against the dark color of his skin.

  “You know who I am, don’t you, pig?” the apparition asked.

  “You’re not real,” Blake replied.

  “Yeah? I’m this way ’cause you busted a cap in me from behind. Shot me in the back.”

  “Get the fuck out of here.”

  Tyree stepped closer to the bed. “I got killed so you can steal my snort. You remember, pig?”

  “You don’t frighten me, Tyree. You were always a two-bit hood hustling dime bags on a corner. I did the world a favor by killing you.”

  “Just ’cause you got this supernatural shit in your blood, why you going to dis the dead?” He crossed his arms and slowly faded into nothingness. Blake let out a nervous breath. His meeting with Tyree seemed almost comical, but he wasn’t laughing.

  He knew what was coming next.

  The bed covers moved as if pulled by invisible hands. He watched in horror as another apparition slowly formed at the foot of the bed. Passion, the black stripper he had murdered two days ago in Chicago, was barely recognizable. Her face had become a misshapen pulp with the skull cracked open exposing gray brain matter, one white pupil-less eye opened, and the other mashed and leaking down the front of her battered face.

  “Look at what you did to me, motherfucker.” She grabbed the blankets and crawled on the bed. “You did this to me.”

  “Get the fuck away!” he shouted but was too frozen in fear to move.

  “Motherfucker.” She moved closer with her destroyed face hovering near his. “You did this shit to me.”

  The apparition faded away.

  His scream was drowned out by the blaring mariachi music next door.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  After dropping Sid off, Terry Newman went straight home and parked the F-150 in the drive. Picking up the yellow notepad with the last will, he went inside. There was so much he wanted to tell his mother, but he knew it had to wait due to her working the day shift at Wal-Mart. A note on the refrigerator said there were egg salad sandwiches for lunch. Still full from breakfast, he settled for only one sandwich before going to his room and lying on the bed. He tried to go to sleep, but the incredible events of the last twenty-four hours prevented him from drifting off. Instead, he stared at the ceiling and thought of Jessica, his new love he met only this morning.

  She was older than him, but not by much. Not really. Besides, he was tired of immature girls like Becky Warren. He needed someone equal to his own maturity, and Jessica was a total babe—blonde hair, blue eyes, nice boobs, the perfect package he had dreamed of. She smiled at him over the breakfast table, or at least he thought she did. If she was married, where was her husband? If the man wasn’t in the picture, how was he going to get
her to fall for him?

  The words Sid said repeated in his mind.

  “You want to be Jessica’s knight in shining armor and protect the babe from the big bad wolf?”

  That’s what he needed to do. Protect her from the werewolf coming around the farm. Slay the monster and get the girl. Kill two birds with one stone. Keep his promise to Mr. Higgins and win Jessica’s love. Isn’t that how it works in the movies? Aragorn got Liv Tyler in the end of the Lord of the Rings trilogy. James Bond always got the girl after saving the world. It should work for him, too.

  But how?

  He jumped off his bed and crossed to the closet where he pulled out a large metal trunk unopened since his father had left four years before. He flipped the latches and swung up the lid. Inside was the hunting gear his dad had bought him when he was thirteen. He removed the items: a ghillie suit that didn’t fit anymore, a pair of walkie-talkies with a seven-mile range, a camouflage poncho, and hiking boots that were too small. At the trunk bottom, he found the thing he was looking for. His buckshot deer-hunting crossbow still looked as new as on the Christmas morning he unwrapped it. Along with the bow, there was the quiver that held four arrows. He removed the bow and returned to his bed.

  When he was younger, he had to have his father’s help to cock the weapon. He was much older and bigger now. This time he was able to pull back the string and cock it in place. He put the bow aside and turned his attention to the four arrows in the quiver—broad-tipped with razor-sharp edges designed to penetrate deer flesh and drop the animal quickly.

  But would they stop a werewolf?

  Terry leaned back on the bed and pondered his question. Remembering the silver bullet Mr. Higgins gave him the day before, he removed it from his pocket and studied it. What he needed was something equal to bring a werewolf down. In an instant he knew the answer. He grabbed up the Ford F-150 key ring from the bedside table and loaded the hunting gear in the back of the truck.

  To save Jessica he was going to need the right weapon to do the job. He imagined himself holding the bow over the slain werewolf as Jessica rushed into his arms. Then he would get the blonde babe just like the heroes in the movies do.