Texas Strange

by West, Terry M.

  Respect was a two-way street to Ross.

  He gave it and he expected it. People who had a problem with authority ran into a two hundred and thirty pound wall when they fucked with Ross Carson. Old man or not, this guy was pissing off Ross, and that wasn’t a very healthy thing to do. You only had to ask more than a few inmates at the Huntsville State pen about Ross in a bad mood and they would tell you: Keep your mouth shut unless you are saying yes sir or no sir. Ross Carson wasn’t a man to fuck around with.

  The vagrant continued to walk.

  “I said freeze!” Ross shouted.

  The old man stopped. He slung the duffle bag to the ground. Ross heard something wet and heavy within the bag thud against the road. The old man turned and faced Ross. Ross had seen many bad things in his tenure with the Highway department; mangled bodies from car wrecks and roadside slayings so hideous that he had vomited at the sight. And he was sure that everything ugly he had ever seen in his entire life was in preparation for this particular night.

  Ross nearly gasped at the sight of the old man’s face. The eyes were black and beady, belonging more to a reptile than a human being. His nose was huge and pitted. But his mouth, that was the man’s most horrible feature. It was large, too large. The lips were gray and the teeth were pointed. The man looked like Uncle Creepy from the old horror publication. Monster magazines had been childhood hobby of Ross’ until his fretting mother threw them all out.

  Ross wanted his revolver, but he chastised himself. It’s just an old man, spooky or not.

  The old timer’s disgust and impatience were very evident in his stance and narrowing eyebrows. “What you be wantin’?” the gray bastard snarled.

  Ross recognized the man’s accent. He was Cajun. The man’s tone was gruff and his words were forced. English was a second language to the man. Cajun French was his native tongue.

  “I’m just wondering what someone is doing out here this time of night. Forty-five can be a dangerous place, Hoss. Haven’t you heard about the Keepsake Killer? We were hoping we’d seen the last of him two years ago. Bastard makes Henry Lee Lucas look like a pussy so you better come along with me. Do you live around here?”

  “No, jes’ let me be.” The old man put his hands on his hips contemptuously. “Why you be givin’ me grief? Dreg be big boy, yeh-heh? Can take care of hisself. Been on the road since you suckin’ mama’s tit. So leave Dreg be, cowboy-man.”

  Ross wore a cowboy hat. It wasn’t regulation; more of a John Wayne fetish. Ross eyed the old man’s duffle bag, finding what could be considered a legitimate reason for stopping him.

  “What’s in the bag?” Ross asked, pulling a weathered billy club from his belt loop and caressing it for effect. It was a gift from his uncle Paul, who had been an MP during world war two. His uncle had used the weapon quite a bit, and it showed. Ross had never once swung the club, but it looked well fed with grooves and indentations in the wood. The very sight of it made people cooperate pretty damn quickly. And it was time this old geezer got a lesson in cooperation.

  “It be none of your know-how,” the old man snapped, unfazed.

  “Back away from the bag. Now, when someone acts like an asshole, we call that suspicious behavior. So you’re the most suspicious son of a bitch I’ve ever met. I’m going to see what you’re haulin’ around at this time of night. Then we are going to get in my nice, safe car and figure out what to do with you from there.”

  The old man grinned. It was a vulture’s grin- a vulture that had just spotted a dying thing and knew supper was soon to come. “You want to see, cowboy-man? Help yerself.”

  The guy was really getting to Ross. He shook it off and insisted to himself that this wicked-looking old fart was only guilty of being antisocial and Ross was trying to humble the ugly fucker. He didn’t like being disrespected, especially by dirty old vagabonds. He would look in the bag, find some collected squalor that this guy had picked up off the road for dinner and then Ross would drop him off at a rest area where the guy could get some sleep without worrying about wild animals or speeding diesels. The rest areas were well lit so he would be relatively safe. Still, a sick part of Ross enjoyed the fantasy of this old man running into the psycho as an ultimate I-told-you-so. But, he was sworn to serve and protect. Even old Cajun assholes.

  “There’s nothing sharp in here, right? There’s nothing that will injure or prick me? Do I need gloves?”

  “No sur,” the old man promised, that fucking grin still plastered on his face. “Nothing in there gonna jump out and hurt you, cowboy-man. Jes’ got my souper in there, yeh? Supper.” The old man smacked his lips and rubbed his belly playfully.

  Ross tilted the bag toward the headlights of his patrol car, where he could get a good look into the bag. The light didn’t really help much; he was too far away from his car. He opened the bag further and reached inside. He gripped something cold, and slick. He pulled the prize out, holding it toward the light.

  “Holy Jesus!” Ross exclaimed, dropping the severed hand.

  It’shimgoddamnitthekeepsakekillerholyshitmotherfucker, Ross thought, chaotically. He twisted quickly toward the old man. Ross’ worn knees protested as he tried to stand.

  The old man tore the club away from Ross. Ross reached with his gore-covered hand for his revolver. Ross was quick. The old man was quicker. Ross had the piece halfway out of its holster when the old man brought the club across Ross’ temple. The nine millimeter flew out of Ross’ hand. The weapon skipped across the pavement.

  Ross sucked in wind as a white light flashed in his brain and a metallic flavor crept into his mouth. He opened his eyes, trying to catch his snap. The world was fuzzy. Focus finally came, and Ross saw the old man standing over him. The ravenous grin on the homicidal old bastard threatened to spread past his ears. Ross looked up, weakly. He knew he was staring at the thief in the night. Ross thought of Flo and Becky for a spilt second, but there was no time left. He had always assumed he would have the opportunity to clean up after himself and settle accounts with the people who mattered, but death had shown up without an appointment.

  The old man gripped the Highway patrolman’s head, bent forward, and bit Ross’ left ear off. Ross screamed and his mind twisted with new agony. Ross knew pain, terror and shock. There was no part of his mind left to spare on anything else. He was at this man’s mercy. Ross was frightened and his head was growing numb. He felt his consciousness mercifully fading and he chased it into the darkness.

  The old man chewed the ear up slowly and swallowed it, grinning with blood soaked teeth.

  “I is the wolf, and you is the sheep, cowboy-man!” he cackled.

  Ross collapsed onto the pavement, his limbs twitching. The old man kneeled and brought the club down on Ross’ head several times. Each blow grew in strength.

  The old man beat Ross beyond recognition. And life.

  CHAPTER 2

  Lucas Glover was the name of the man standing at the doorway in the heat. And though most called him Luke, he answered to either. Still, he suddenly wished that his name was a different one entirely and that he was standing anywhere else at that particular moment. He had promised himself that he was done with this type of work. But yet here he was, chasing death once more. His mind ached and it was a muscle that he wouldn't be able to stretch and warm up before sprinting into madness again.

  The first thing that struck Lucas was the odor. The summer weather was sweltering. Standing at the threshold of the crime scene, Luke’s nostrils were burnt by the rancid scent of decay. The body had been carted off long ago, but the odor had stayed. It wasn't bad enough to apply mentholatum under the nostrils, but it was still an overpowering human musk that mingled with urine and feces. He stepped into the apartment, eluding the sun and almost gagging on the stench which was more potent inside the building.

  Detective William Harlson, who flanked Luke, gripped the psychic’s shoulder. “You okay, sport?”

  “Fine,” Luke insisted, pretending to wipe sweat from his face
with a handkerchief. What the hell am I doing here? Luke wondered. He was no stranger to carnage. He had used his mind’s eye to locate dozens of rotting murder victims, usually deposited into shallow graves or totally exposed to the elements in dense forests. And the majority of those victims were children. But his sixth sense made him only spectator. Here all of his senses were assailed and he didn’t like it at all. He was a psychic hound for missing persons. Now he was being used to catch the Jack the Ripper of his generation- a sick, elusive gent dubbed the Keepsake Killer who was setting mass murder records in three states.

  Luke shoved his handkerchief in his breast pocket and tried his best to adopt a Clint Eastwood grimace.

  Harlson, the grizzled veteran cop with a face so dark and weathered that it resembled aged leather, wasn’t fooled. “Takes some getting used to, doesn’t it?” Harlson spoke. “And I am not particularly proud of the fact that I am. I know your rep for spotting missing kids and lost puppies, but have you ever been to a murder site before?”

  “No,” Luke replied, after taking a shallow breath. “Finding murder victims in their own apartments takes something away from psychic work. I was brought in to profile, and that is something new for me. So you need to give me a break, here.”

  Harlson chuckled and slapped Luke’s back. “Welcome to the HPD homicide department. The pay ain’t great, but you get all the vomit bags you can carry.”

  The contempt in the officer’s voice was very sharp and clear.

  “Whatever you say,” Luke muttered, trying to shake off Harlson and plug in, as he called it. He shut his eyes and rubbed his temples. His head ached already, and he wasn’t even attempting any sort of reception yet. Damn migraines. He had suffered them since his teens and they were getting worse. Much worse.

  “You all right, Lucas?” asked Harlson.

  “You can call me Luke,” Luke advised, still taking in the bad air. "Most people do."

  "Are you okay Luke?" Harlson tried again.

  "Be quiet for a minute," Luke asked politely. "Sorry but I need a second here."

  He tried to imagine the man standing next to him a hundred miles away, but Luke could still sense Harlson’s skepticism. He mused that a sledgehammer to the head would have been more subtle and less painful than the pain swelling at the base of his skull and encroaching on his brain, despite the prescribed painkiller that was circulating in his system.

  His hide was tough, but a small part of him wished for Harlson’s understanding. He could grip the officer, force a vision and try to reveal a secret that only the officer knew, but he loathed such an act. It would have been a violation, and Lucas refused to wield his abilities in that way. He had been grilled before by the best charlatan busters around and he would not be reduced to proving himself to a flatfoot. Fuck Harlson if he didn’t believe. Luke knew otherwise, to his deep regret. But, no. No time for dark memories. This always inevitably led to his stepping in messes of angst. He had an hour’s drive back home for that shit.

  He realized that the negativity emitting from the detective wasn't helping him, so Luke opened his eyes and joined the detective in the present.

  “How many does this make?” Luke asked, hoping an update would help stimulate his psychic antennae, or third eye, or whatever the hell it was that granted him his abilities.

  “Seven, this year,” Harlson replied, “Eight, if you include Ross Carson, the Highway patrolman. That’s what we suspect at this point. The officer is missing, squad car and all.”

  “Were all of the murders in this area?” Luke inquired further, having only caught bits and pieces of the Keepsake Killer’s recent rash on the evening news.

  “Weren’t you already briefed on this?” Harlson asked, thickly.

  “No, detective. That’s why you’re here,” Luke said, marveling at the nerve a gun and badge could buy a man. “You aren’t just a chaperone.”

  Harlson grunted. “Five of the murders took place in this area. Two bodies, or what was left of them, were found on the shoulder of forty-five past Huntsville. Their I.D. was lifted, so we’ve got missing persons working on their dental records. Their vehicle was taken and never recovered.”

  “Why do you think the killer has preyed mostly on the people in or near this complex?”

  “It’s a government project, sport. Easy pickings. So much shit goes down here that it’s impossible to distinguish murder from a domestic squabble. Most of the tenants are sort of shy of us blue boys. They have a tendency to go blind, mute and deaf when we question them.”

  “Do you think the killer might be staying here? Or close?”

  Harlson shrugged. “Could be, though I doubt it. Our boy’s a real wanderer. This clown makes your normal serial look like a manicurist. You know, most of your serials want to be caught. That’s usually the only way we catch them. Some subconscious slip on their part. They leave a string of random clues like the pieces of a puzzle for us to put together. Not this guy. Oh, sure. We’ve found prints, skin tissue and strands of hair, but without priors, the son of a bitch doesn’t exist to us. He may as well be invisible.”

  Harlson motioned to the dry blood that had bathed the hallway rug, ending a trail of gore that began from the back bedroom. “Messy bastard. He’s a straight vivisectionist. No sexual tampering or evidence of cult affiliation. He just likes to cut parts off of people and take them with him. He also takes their driver’s licenses. That’s why the press calls him the Keepsake Killer.”

  “Yes, I am aware of that,” Luke said, staring at the blood and glad that his wife, Tammy, was a good hour’s drive away in southwest Houston.

  “Want to see the bedroom?” Harlson asked.

  “Not really. But I guess I have to. Lead on.”

  They walked down the hallway, following the trail of hardened blood to the bedroom. Harlson was unfazed. Luke figured many years on the force did that to a guy. Luke tried to find the tingle in his stomach and squash it. He also felt more than a little lightheaded. He would not be of much use if he could not master his emotional reaction. Yes, it was horrible. Yes, he wanted to flee the apartment. If he did though, this Keepsake Killer would continue this bloody orgy.

  A very good motivation for Luke to continue was the thought of Tammy falling prey to this psycho. It was very unlikely, since they lived such a distance from the murder sites. Still, it proved effective. Luke inhaled the gross air deeply and followed Harlson stepped into the bedroom.

  First Luke noticed the blood, and it seemed to cover everything from the walls to the bed. Then he saw a chalk outline on the wooden floor. The shape of it formed a head and torso. No arms. No legs.

  Luke shot a look at Harlson.

  The detective nodded, grimly. “And she was also gutted,” he said, fishing a cigarette out of his shirt pocket.

  Luke groaned and wrung his hands together, finally betraying his bravado.

  “This may take a while. I have never seen a more disturbing sight than that.”

  “I understand,” Harlson said, a look of recollection in his eyes. “I remember the first time I came across a death that really rattled me."

  "What happened to you?" Lucas said, stalling as he was still gathering the strength he would need to continue.

  "I was still a dumb rookie for the Houston Police Department," Harlson told Luke. "One afternoon, my partner and I responded to 10-56. A suicide. The deceased on the scene turned out to be a twelve year-old girl who was sitting on a toilet with slit wrists. Her eyes had stayed open and I'll never forget how empty they looked, man. Her flesh was so white- drained of blood. She looked like she was made of porcelain. The most disturbing part about it though, was that she had managed to extend both of her middle fingers on her hands. And they stiffened that way."

  Harlson illustrated by flipping a double bird in the air. "It was like she had said, 'Fuck you world, I’m out of here'.”

  Harlson paused and shook his head dourly. “So, here was this dead girl, who should have been going through the first stages
of boy crazy and playing with dolls. And she had taken herself out. And, I’ll admit, it still haunts me.”

  “I can imagine that it would,” Luke replied, sympathetically. “And, just so you know, I'm no stranger to gore, detective. I've seen my share. I've just been a little- off lately. And this is a fucking nightmare. You have my respect for the tolerance to this that you obviously have.”

  “And, like I said before, sport- I am not the least bit proud of it,” Harlson emphasized. “It's a sad, fucked-up world, and things are only getting worse. I hear about this Y2K shit, you know? Airplanes falling out of the skies. Missiles firing on their own. Scary possibilities, when you think about them.”

  “Those possibilities are always there,” Luke said. “Death doesn’t need a countdown or timetable.”

  “Let me tell you something about death, sport,” Harlson said, gravely. “Something I know well from being on the force for twenty years. Death is as appealing as its name. Death sucks. People piss, shit, come and drool when they die. It may look like glamorous business in the movies and on TV, but it’s the nastiest process you’ll ever witness. And we can only delay it, hold it back, maybe, or avenge it. But we’ll never stop it. We’re really just pissing in the wind.”

  “Thanks for that uplifting speech. Maybe I’ll go slit my wrists, now,” Luke joked, his dark sense of humor peeking through.

  Harlson chuckled. “And just as I was scraping up some compassion for you.”

  “Tell me more about this one.”

  Harlson complied, and he seemed to be warming up to Luke. “Her name was Tonya Lawley. She was a freelance photographer. A real ambulance chaser, too. She was always looking for a good car wreck to snap. She was twenty-seven, Caucasian and single. We’re still looking for her next of kin.”

  “There’s no pattern with the other victims?”

  “Not that we can see. Two of the victims were white, two were black, one was Hispanic, and then there was that Mr. and Mrs. Doe on the Interstate. They were Vietnamese.”