by David Wood
“What?” Dick said.
“This one,” Trey said, pointing his beam in front of him. “This one. The lock is bigger. I think the freezer is too.” He shined the light over the hinges. “Different type of hinge.”
Dick harrumphed. “That's contestant number two in 'who wants to vandalize a freezer.'“ He dragged the duffel bag behind him as he approached Trey. Dick dropped the bag and stepped close to the hinge. “Hmm. This might suck,” he said. The hinge itself was a circular fitting covered with an assembly. “But,” he said, “everything must bend to force.”
“So,” Trey said, turning toward him. “No finesse job?”
The wrecking bar appeared in Dick's hands along with the large, steel hammer. “Fuck no,” Dick breathed. “This is a job for massive destruction.”
Trey felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach as Dick lined up the end of the crowbar on the door's back edge. “Coming in from the side,” he whispered, “and going to knock this fucking door off.”
The sound of each blow hurt Trey's ears. Dick was sweating, despite the warehouse chill. His right hand continued its punishing blows against the freezer door. Trey watched the metal splinter and the door's finish pucker and strip with each strike. The top hinge assembly popped up holding the door together with nothing more than a narrow strip of metal. The last blow severed it. Although the door didn't hang open, it did seem to lean a bit.
“Fuck,” Dick breathed, wiping his forehead with a sleeve. “You just had to pick this one, didn't you?” Dick asked.
Trey said nothing, but shined his light on the bottom hinge assembly.
Dick groaned and knelt down, his knees popping. “Fucker,” he whispered. On his knees, Dick lined up the crowbar and once again began banging the hammer. It took many hits, but eventually the assembly gave.
Trey was smart enough to have one hand against the door to keep it from falling atop Dick. “Fucker's heavy,” Trey said aloud, struggling to keep the door in place. Dick dropped his tools into the duffel bag, stood, and placed his hands on the door's ruined edge. “Okay?” Trey asked.
“Okay,” Dick said. The two of them sidestepped, bringing the door off the freezer. The freezer seemed to bellow smoke in the dim light, the frigid air pouring out in a wall of mist. They lay the door down and stared inside.
Trey paused for a second and then played the beam of his flashlight into the darkness.
Chapter 50
“Goddammit, Trey,” Dick was saying. Trey blinked, and then winced. Dick's fingers were clenched in a death grip on the meat of his shoulder.
“What are--”
“You okay, man?” Dick's eyes glittered with fear, his pale face holding barely concealed revulsion. “You kind of, well, just stopped.”
Trey shook his head from side to side, trying to clear it. “Yeah, that happens.”
“Don't look in there, okay?” Dick removed his hands from Trey's shoulder. “Don't want you...doing whatever it was you just did.”
Trey turned back to the freezer, his flashlight beam still pointed into its interior. Trey gulped and felt bile rise in his throat. “Holy, Jesus,” he whispered, stepping back.
A pile of Ziplock bags were neatly stacked. Labels in a strange, blood red script were affixed to each bag. Transparent buckets that perhaps once contained ice cream were filled with a frozen crimson liquid.
At first, all he'd seen were coils of meat inside the Ziplocks, link sausages or brats perhaps. But the all too familiar shape atop the pile brought it home.
“Jesus,” he whispered again. He looked closer, seeing the textured bumps and bends in the grey sausage looking meat. Intestines, Trey thought. His shaking flashlight moved sideways. The beam illuminated delicate fingers clenched in a fist, the skin white as bone.
“Is that a fucking hand?” He gulped back vomit, turning toward Dick. Dick had already puked on the floor next to the freezer.
“We have to call the fucking cops,” Dick whispered. “We have to.” Bags and bags piled atop one another, all labeled in that strange script. “Whatever you do,” Dick said, “don't look in the bottom drawer.”
“Why?” Trey asked in a shaking voice. “What-- What's in there.”
Dick shook his head. “I'm not saying. Just-- Just don't look in there.”
“Okay.” Trey backed into a stack of boxes and turned off the flashlight.
“We have to call the cops, Trey. We have to.”
“How many--” Trey gulped and then cleared his throat. “How many children do you think are in there?”
Dick shook his head again. “I don't know, but from what's in the bottom drawer, I'd say at least two.”
Trey turned and looked at him. “I don't want to know, do I?”
“No, man. You don't. You--” Dick broke off, looking back toward the warehouse door. “Trey,” he whispered. “Do you hear something?” The two men froze, Trey's head cocked to one side.
A shuffling, sliding sound came from somewhere behind the labyrinth of boxes. Dick turned and pointed in that direction and then pointed down toward the duffel bag. Confused, Trey just blinked at him. Dick bent, his body shivering, and pulled the wrecking bar from the duffel bag. He handed it to Trey who took it with numb hands. Dick reached in again and pulled out the hammer.
Dick took two steps toward the entry to the box labyrinth, Trey following behind. The sound stopped, leaving the warehouse silent. The two men froze, each holding their makeshift weapons before them.
Trey's heart trip-hammered in his chest, blood pounding in his ears. He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. The shuffling sound started once more. It was closer now. Trey looked around. They were barely inside the maze of boxes. If someone came at them from the front of the maze, they'd have nowhere to go.
He reached out a hand and placed it gently on Dick's shoulder. Dick stiffened and then turned to face Trey, his face pale and terrified.
“Go back,” Trey mouthed and began stepping backwards.
An inhuman scream rattled the warehouse. Trey panicked, falling backward to the concrete. Dick whirled around, once again facing the maze of boxes ahead of him. He clicked on his flashlight and screamed. Trey shuffled backwards on his hands, his feet scrabbling for purchase against the concrete. Dick backpedaled, his flashlight falling and crash- ing to the floor. Between the V of Dick's legs, Trey saw something moving and moving fast. A shadowy form slid toward them with liquid grace and speed. Trey opened his mouth to scream and then something loomed over Dick.
From the floor, he made out a misshapen head rising over Dick's shoulder, fierce, yellow eyes burning through the shadows. Large canines appeared from behind wide grey, lips.
Dick screamed again.
“No!” Trey yelled.
The thing's eyes blinked, and leered over Dick's shoulder at Trey. It snarled at him and lifted a taloned hand high in the air. The claw descended in a blur. The sound of ripping fabric cut off Dick's scream. Dick fell backwards to the concrete, the thing standing over him. Its taut, sinewy body pulsed with rapid intakes of air, blood dripping from one of its taloned hands.
“Go the fuck away!” Trey yelled again, his voice cracking but still lifting above the sound of Dick's own bellow. The thing grinned at him and took a step backwards. “I see you!”
It said something in a guttural, liquid string of syllables and leaped back into the shadows. Trey heard the click and clack of taloned feet on concrete. The door at the front of the warehouse opened and then slammed shut with a bone-crushing bang. He still held the wrecking bar in his clenched hands. Dick's screams had turned into whimpers. Trey shuffled forward. “Dick?” The older man was holding his chest with his hands. “Dick?”
“Can't breathe,” he whispered. “Can't breathe.”
Trey fumbled in his pocket for his cellphone. He managed to pull it out and it fell to the floor from his shaking fingers.
“Calling the cops,” he said aloud. His clumsy fingers scrabbled over the plastic casing and finally
managed to hold it. He tried to type in his code one handed. The phone vibrated and presented a “Wrong Code” message. “Fuck!” he screamed. He forced himself to slow down. Dick was taking in shallow breaths, his chest barely rising with the effort. Trey closed his eyes, let out a deep breath and he typed out the numbers slowly and carefully. The phone unlocked. He dialed 9-1-1.
Chapter 51
The interview room was much like the room he'd met Tony Downs in at the hospital. He sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair facing a metal table. The mirror that covered one of the walls showed his frazzled reflection. Trey stared up at it occasionally with a bone-tired weariness. The massive adrenaline rush at the warehouse had left him feeling drained and empty.
And on top of it all, he'd been there for more than an hour. A cold cup of coffee sat on the metal table. He glowered at it, wondering when they were going to bring someone else in the room to ask him if he needed anything. The last officer that had come in had only given him a blank stare when he asked how Dick was doing.
Trey laid his head down atop the table, but found it too uncomfortable to sleep. He was slumped in the plastic chair, fighting the urge to nod off.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
The door clicked and he turned his head to stare as the knob swiveled. A man in a crisp suit entered the room carrying a large folder. “Mr. Leger,” he drawled. “My name is Detective Dewhurst.”
Trey blinked at the man and said nothing.
Dewhurst shook his head a little. “I'm very sorry you've been in this room for so long.”
“Please don't ask me if I need anything,” Trey whispered, “and then leave.”
“Oh, I'm not leaving,” Dewhurst said. He nodded toward Trey's coffee. “Do you need some more coffee?” Trey shook his head. Dewhurst sighed and sat down in the chair across from Trey. He placed the folder near the table's edge and folded his hands atop it. “Do you have any questions for me?”
Trey nodded. “How's Dick?”
Dewhurst sucked in a breath. “Mr. Dickerson's in ICU. He had a mild heart attack,” he said in a toneless voice. “He lost quite a bit of blood to boot.”
“Fuck,” Trey breathed, raising a hand to his face. He rubbed his eyes. “Is he going--”
“My understanding, Mr. Leger--”
“Trey, please.”
Dewhurst's smile returned. “My understanding, Trey, is that he's going to be okay.”
Trey blew out a sigh. “Thank, God,” he whispered.
“Yes,” Dewhurst agreed. “Now, do you have any other questions?”
Trey nodded. “Do I need a lawyer?”
Dewhurst blinked at him, his expression flat. “Not at this time, Trey. Not at this time.” The detective pulled a sheaf of paper from the folder and held it up. “I want to read something to you. And you might find it a trifle upsetting.” Trey opened his mouth to say something, but Dewhurst held up a single finger to shush him. “If I may, Trey.” Trey closed his mouth and leaned back in his chair. Dewhurst nodded to himself. “We looked in the busted open refrigerator. We found, uh, the remains of at least three people. Children,” Dewhurst said, peering over the paper at him. “All frozen. All wrapped in plastic. And buckets that appear to be filled with frozen blood.”
Trey swallowed. The color had drained from his face and the weariness threatened to crush him. “I--”
“What I want to know, Trey,” Dewhurst said, dropping the piece of paper, “is what you were doing there.”
“You wouldn't believe--”
“Try me,” Dewhurst said, his eyes glaring into Trey's. “I don't believe you have anything to do with this, sir, but I want to know how you and your friend ended up in that warehouse.”
Trey took in a deep breath, and began to explain. He told Dewhurst about the ice cream van, how he and Dick hadn't liked the man. About Dick's research into the dummy company and about the missing boy. He left out his time at the hospital as well as his visions. As he talked, Dewhurst pulled a small notebook from his suit coat pocket and began taking notes. When he was finished, the detective had scrawled several pages worth.
“Is that everything, Trey?” he asked without looking up at him.
“Yes,” Trey said.
Dewhurst nodded. He looked up from the notebook, a shark's grin on his face. “How many times have you been institutionalized, Mr. Leger?”
Trey's mouth opened and then he closed it again. “I-- How do you--”
“Police report, sir. From four years ago.” The cop opened the manilla folder and pulled out another sheet of paper. “Although your wife chose not to file a complaint, the officer still logged it.”
“But--”
“Wonderful thing, computers,” Dewhurst said. “Makes it easy to search across the neighboring jurisdictions.” He tapped his pen on the metal table. “I'm going to find out everything, Trey. So if there's anything you left out, I suggest you tell me now.”
Eyes cast down at his reflection in the table, Trey found his right hand performing the chromatic scale. The three fingers danced in the fast repetition. He stopped them and looked up at Dewhurst. “I'm not crazy,” he said softly. “I'm not.”
The grin on the cop's face faded into a gentle smile. “No one says you are, Trey.”
“Bullshit,” Trey whispered. “You look at me. You call in some favors, maybe squeeze a little information from one of the nurses at the hospital, or you talk to someone in Montgomery County. They pull a few files for you. Let you peek at something. You'll find out all that crap. And then you'll come back here and call me crazy. Just like most other people would.”
“Assuming,” Dewhurst said as he leaned forward, “that I had time to do all that, Trey, and that I had that many friends, what would I find out?”
“I have not been read my rights, Detective. Is that correct?”
“That is correct,” Dewhurst said in a loud, clear voice, “you have not been read your rights, sir.”
“So you can't use any of this?” Dewhurst nodded. “Say it,” Trey snarled.
Dewhurst leaned back in his chair, his brows furrowed. He turned to look at the mirrored wall and mimicked slashing his throat with his hand. “The department,” he said as he turned back to Trey, “may not use any of this interview against you, Mr. Leger.”
Trey nodded. “I suffer from psychosis, Detective,” Trey whispered. “Do you know what that means?”
Dewhurst nodded. “It means you are delusional. Prone to hallucinations, perhaps.”
“Yes,” Trey said. “I'm amazed you know the meaning of the word.”
The detective chuckled. “Afraid I have friends in the field who've corrected me more than once, Mr. Leger.” He tapped his pen again against the metal table. “So, Trey, did you see something?”
Trey sighed. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “I saw a thing.” Dewhurst's eyebrow raised. “A thing dressed like a man.”
Pursing his lips, Dewhurst looked down again at his notebook. “What did this thing look like, Trey?”
“Fuck,” Trey whispered, “it looked like a thing, okay? Tall. Skin all fucked up. Jaw filled with large teeth, fingers that ended in long talons. Shit like that.”
“Is that what attacked your friend?” Trey nodded. “You realize I can't put out an APB on that,” Dewhurst said.
Trey shrugged. “He always wears a cream-colored jumpsuit.”
“Wears? But what was he wearing today?”
“I--” Trey dropped his eyes to the table. “I don't know. I couldn't see-- He just looked like a shadow.”
Dewhurst sighed. “So I'm putting out an APB on a tall, walking crocodile that looks like a shadow. Oh, and he might be wearing a white jumpsuit.”
“I know,” Trey said. “I told you it would all sound crazy.” Trey raised his eyes. “Until today, he always wore a hat too.”
“Is that important?”
“He--” Trey swallowed. “It always hid its eyes. Always wore a hat pulled low so you couldn't really see them.”
Dewhurst nodded and scribbled something down on the paper. “That's something I can use,” he drawled. He closed the notebook and placed the pen beside it. He tented his hands and locked eyes with Trey. “You think there's a monster out there.” Trey nodded. “I believe in human monsters,” Dewhurst said softly. “And I believe you saw something, Mr. Leger. And we're going to catch him.”
Trey swallowed again. “Thank you,” he whispered.
“Don't mention it. I'm going to call your wife, Trey. I'll have her come pick you up.”
Chapter 52
The cold wind bit through his jacket. Trey shivered, but refused to go back inside. Although the station was actually off to the side of downtown, the tall Houston buildings made the city into a wind tunnel turning a stiff breeze into a strong wind, and a strong wind into a hurricane. Every few minutes, an officer or two walked past, coming from or going to their patrol cars. Occasionally, they led in a person in cuffs.
Evening was fast approaching. The clouds had thickened, all but hiding the sun save for a gentle glow toward the west. He'd been standing in the cold for at least ten minutes, waiting for Carolyn to pick him up. He wrapped his arms around himself. It was damned cold and getting colder. He fought the urge to walk back into the station. It was warm inside, but he didn't want to see Dewhurst. And he sure as hell didn't want all those cops staring at him; he felt creeped out enough.
Dewhurst. The guy said he believed in human monsters, but Trey didn't know what that meant. At first he thought perhaps the detective was making fun of him, dismissing the story as delusion, but Trey wondered.
The detective seemed sympathetic. No, Trey thought, that's the wrong word. Was it possible he'd seen something like that in his life?
Dewhurst had left him in the interrogation room for a while after their conversation. When he returned, he wore a grim smile and put a hot cup of coffee in front of Trey.