“What were you thinking about?” Tammy asked, yawning loudly.
“I’m retiring after this case.”
He waited for a response.
“I’m serious,” Luke insisted, taking her silence in the dark as one of skepticism.
He started to unbutton his shirt, then he decided that he shouldn’t get too comfortable before hearing Tammy’s reply.
They had a strong marriage, but Luke was still very well acquainted with the living room sofa. Shit happens.
“I can’t just drop out of this investigation,” Luke continued. “The police commissioner practically came to me on his hands and knees. They’ve been trying to catch the Keepsake Killer for a long time. He’s a monster, honey. The things he does to his victims. I have to see this through or I’ll never feel safe again, for either one of us. I’ll help them all I can, then you and I are going to take the longest vacation possible.”
Tammy’s hand caressed his back.
“Do you promise?” came her voice, soft and relieved.
“I will publicly swear to it on a stack of bibles if it will convince you,” Luke said, turning toward Tammy and holding her hand.
“If you don’t retire, I’ll leave you. I love you, but I’ll still leave,” Tammy said, squeezing Luke’s hand.
The threat filled him with alarm, making him wonder if he had fully intended to back the promise. He planned to now. He couldn’t live without Tammy.
“You won’t have to do that. You’ll see,” Luke reassured her, kissing the back of her hand.
Luke changed into boxer shorts (sterility doctor’s orders) and he climbed into bed. As he rolled over and wrapped his arm around Tammy, he felt dampness on the edge of her pillow.
“Are you as tired as I am?” Luke whispered.
“If you pass out, Lucas Glover, then I’m really going to get mad,” Tammy teased, pulling him close.
The bourbon had succeeded in dulling the pain, so Luke lost himself in his wife.
CHAPTER 8
Hellhole sweet hellhole, Detective William Harlson thought, stepping into his studio apartment. It was late, which was a blessing.
The gym below his place was closed now, so he wouldn’t have to listen to the muscle heads throw free weights to the floor.
He tossed a handful of unpaid bills, all marked “final notice,” onto a small coffee table cluttered with empty beer cans and a ceramic ashtray that was overflowing with cigarette butts. Harlson dropped his jacket on the floor, mere inches from a coat rack, and he plodded into the kitchen for a beer.
He opened the refrigerator door, grimacing at the odor of rotten milk.
“My science project,” Harlson muttered.
He retrieved a beer and he slammed the door. Harlson drained half the can in one swig. He spotted the small red light on his answering machine through the darkness of the living room.
“Hello, Mr. Harlson,” a feminine, Hispanic sounding voice said after Harlson hit the playback button. “This is Maria Watson with the Southern Collection Agency. Please give me a call so we can work something out with these delinquent accounts. We really don’t want to take you to court.”
“She ain't gettin' none of it,” Harlson sang in a deep and course voice, cheerfully quoting George Thorogood.
There was a beep, and then a second message played.
“William?” A female voice. Concerned, strained- on the verge of panic.
“I talked to Dr. Tibbels. How could you, William? I’m coming by. You won’t return my calls so I’m going to risk being raped or killed and come to downtown Houston to visit you. I shouldn’t have to come, William, but you’re too damn stubborn to leave me a choice.”
The machine clicked off. Harlson stared at it as the tape was rewound.
“Babbs,” he whispered, standing alone in the darkness.
CHAPTER 9
Lucas was in a restaurant. He didn’t know which restaurant. He didn’t know what kind of food was served there. He was seated at a table in the faintly lit establishment. He was having a cigarette and he was drinking a bourbon.
A spotlight shone on him, but he didn’t think much about it. He didn’t remember coming to this place. That bothered him slightly, but he was very hungry. It was good to be in a restaurant, having a smoke and a bourbon even if a damn spotlight was shining in his face.
A waiter stepped out of the darkness toward Luke’s table. Lucas could tell it was a waiter by the black vest and bow tie that the man wore. The face of the waiter was concealed by the darkness. The shadow clung to his features like a mask and it followed the waiter when he moved. Luke could see the man’s hands, though, and they were holding a silver tray. The meal was hidden beneath a service plate cover, but Lucas could smell the food. And that’s all that mattered to Lucas. He was hungry and in a restaurant. He was having a smoke and drinking a bourbon and a spotlight shone in his face and he couldn’t see his waiter but a meal was on its way.
And this was good.
“You order the special, podna?” a gruff voice issued from the mysterious cloud around the waiter's face.
Luke didn’t remember.
He was in a restaurant. He didn’t know which one. He didn’t know what kind of food was served there. He was having a cigar and drinking a beer. A strobe light shone on him and his waiter was holding a plain tin pot with a lid over it.
Not knowing where he was and dealing with the sadistic light that was pulsing in his eyes troubled Luke. But a meal was to come.
And this was good.
Luke heard a humming sound. He looked to his left, and a sudden light faded up through the darkness. A large glass aquarium rested near him. It resembled those gaudy built into the wall fish tanks that Lucas had seen in doctor and lawyer offices. It was decorated inside with water plants and a castle that glowed as if under a black light. But there were no fish in this tank.
Its only resident was a fully developed pink fetus which bobbed in the rush of air bubbles that were surging to the top of the aquarium. It appeared to be dead, and Luke was reminded of a baby in a jar of formaldehyde that you would see at a freak show. The only difference was that a freak show fetus was usually fake, and Lucas had no doubt in his mind that this little corpse was very real.
To his shock, the infant slowly opened its eyes. It had green, feline shaped orbs that stared upon Luke.
“Evil breeds evil,” the fetus spoke, in a soft, clear voice. “Oblivion is the father. Corruption is the mother. He searches for the angel maker. If light is tainted by darkness, the pack shall rise again and the old hunger will lead them. You have been touched by him. His powers are too undeveloped to feel your bond. But beware, close proximity will give you away. I am evil incarnate, but he rejects me.”
The fetus smiled, air bubbles escaping its tiny red mouth.
“Not very brotherly, if you ask me.”
Darkness swallowed the bizarre sight, the cat-eyed, pink baby disappearing, and Luke’s attention was snapped back to his table, where another monstrosity awaited his company.
A man sat next to him. The stranger's face was mangled and distorted. His nose was completely bent to one side. His lower lip was torn at one corner, revealing his blackened lower jaw.
His left ear was missing, maggots pouring out of the hole and dripping onto his shoulder. The man wore a uniform, but Luke couldn’t distinguish what type of law officer this zombie had been.
The man leaned forward in his chair, his dead, glassy eyes fixed on Luke.
“Forty-five can be a dangerous place, fella,” he spoke, his speech pattern unhindered by the job done on his face. “Haven’t you ever heard about the Keepsake Killer? The son of a bitch makes Henry Lee Lucas look like a pussy.”
The dead man settled back in his chair.
“Beware the moon, pal,” he warned. “Beware the wolf. He wears a man.”
The undead officer of the law disappeared and Cottontail the topless dancer took his place.
She wore her white, fluffy b
unny costume and rabbit ears that held her long raven hair out of her face.
“What’s the matter, honey,” she said with a sympathetic, crooked smile. “Perplexed?”
She began to slip under the table, her eyebrows dancing flirtatiously above her eyes.
“Let the silly wabbit help you out.”
Luke didn’t know which restaurant he was in. He didn’t know what kind of food was served there. He was smoking a pipe and drinking a glass of wine and Cottontail the topless dancer was under the table giving him head.
The waiter stepped into the blue light that bathed the corner of reality that Luke occupied. The cloud around the waiter's features suddenly evaporated and Lucas could see the man's face.
The waiter had the head of a wolf. Luke stared more closely, his penis shriveling in Cottontail’s mouth, and her attention disappearing altogether.
The waiter’s fur was gray and matted. Its eyes were black orbs devoid of pupils. Its snout was long, protruding so close to Luke’s face that its wet nose snorted on him. Its black gums grew as the hideous creature opened its mouth and snarled.
The monster was once again clutching the silver tray with a service cover on it. The creature pulled the cover away, revealing the head of Tonya Lawley. Her eyes stared upward toward a cruel God and her mouth was frozen in a scream.
“Mmm, mmm good,” the werewolf cackled, licking its chops with a long pink tongue. “I is the wolf, little lamb!”
Luke woke up, drenched with sweat, and he immediately felt for Tammy as a connection back to reality.
She was still there. And she was as sound a sleeper as ever. Luke settled back down and he stared at the ceiling. He turned on the weak reading light on his side of the bed, sure it would not rouse Tammy. Luke reached for the notepad and pen on his nightstand and he wrote down the details of his nightmare, which were already fleeing his mind.
Luke finished. He turned off the lamp and put the notepad aside. He thought back to what Harlson told him about Bertha Hobbs when she tried to track down the Keepsake Killer.
…the wolf…the wolf… she had babbled.
Luke got up from bed and he walked to his bedroom window. He peeled back the curtain and stared out at the sleepy street he lived on. His yard was silver, lit by the full moon in the sky. Luke crept to the living room, and he sat on the sofa. He let the nightmare replay in his head. There was a message in that horrific dream somewhere. But precognitive dreams were a tricky business. You had to be able to sort the valuable from the nonsensical and at the end of the day, it might all still be just a dream.
Lucas felt wide awake. He grabbed the TV remote and stretched out on the couch.
CHAPTER 10
There was a knock at the door.
Maybe she’ll go away, Harlson thought. Maybe if I don’t answer she’ll go away.
He knew better, though. Babbs would camp outside his door all night, if that’s what it took to see him. He was touched by her loyalty, but he was also annoyed by her stubbornness. Why wouldn’t she leave him alone, for Christ’s sake? He had made his decision, like a man. Why did she have to complicate matters?
Babbs knocked again. “I know you’re in there,” she called out. "You never leave the lights on when you're gone."
He walked resignedly toward the door.
Harlson withdrew the deadbolt and he opened the door, staring at his younger sister. She was bundled up in a very unflattering overcoat. Poor old Babbs. Her light blonde hair was bunched under a floral head scarf. She looked like an old spinster, though she was only forty-seven. She wore no make-up and her hard features were locked in a perpetual grimace of pain and loss.
Harlson never knew exactly what had happened to Babbs to cause her to live such a miserable, man less life. He wasn’t that close to her anymore, but he suspected that it all started with a bad split from a beau when she was in her early twenties.
He suddenly wished more than ever that Babbs had a husband. Then she wouldn’t have so much free time to interfere with his life.
"Jesus, it's late, kiddo," Harlson said. "Why did you drag yourself out here?"
“We need to talk,” Babbs said, in a shrill nasal tone.
“Christ, Babbs,” Harlson said. “It’s summer. Why are you wearing a coat?”
“I have a cold,” Babbs said, stepping inside. “A summer cold, okay, smarty pants?”
Babbs took a good look at the apartment.
“God, you’re such a pig,” she exclaimed, proceeding to pick beer cans up and spirit them to the kitchen wastebasket. “Give me a key and at least let me come by and clean the place.”
“Babbs,” Harlson said, softly. “Put the stuff down and have a seat.”
Babbs deposited a handful of beer cans into the trash. “Recycle those things, okay, William? It’s good for the environment,” she said, crossing the room and sitting on the sofa.
She suddenly looked pensive. Babbs rubbed her eyes.
“So, are we going to talk bullshit for a few minutes or are we going to discuss your decision to not take the chemotherapy?” Babbs said.
Babbs usually had a nervous tremor to her voice that betrayed so much emotional turmoil. It was almost pitiful. Tonight her voice had an angry edge to it that Harlson rarely heard.
“It’s too far gone for the treatments,” Harlson said, perching on the arm of the sofa.
“It wasn’t too far gone six months ago,” Babbs said. “Why didn’t you do something about it then?”
“I was busy six months ago,” Harlson replied, bitterly. Did his flaky sister want an apology? Well, he had never apologized for the way he had lived his life, and he damn sure wasn’t going to apologize for how he was going to die.
“Stop it, William!” Babbs shrieked, standing up and shaking fiercely with anger. “You’re all I have and you’re going to just crawl under a rock and die. You selfish bastard. You don’t care about me.”
“This isn’t about you,” Harlson said, growing angry himself, though he usually had the patience of a saint with his sister. “You’re not the one with cancer. You’re not the one looking at another year of life, if you’re lucky.”
“But, William, the chemo would have given you more time. It may have even cured you,” Babbs pleaded, though there was really no point to the argument.
“Yeah, the chemo works, if you survive the chemo. My number’s up, baby. I wasn’t about to take a treatment that might have killed me sooner. I didn’t want to go like that. I didn’t want people showing up at my funeral and feeling pity for a bald, shriveled up victim. Fuck that noise. I’m going out like a man,” Harlson said, feeling some masculine pride.
Babbs wasn’t attempting to hold back the tears anymore. They ran freely down her face and onto her coat.
“Do you think people will feel any less pity for you this way, William?” she whispered, wiping her eyes and collecting herself.
“Babbs-”
“I have to go now,” she said, rising and hiking her purse strap further up her shoulder. “This is just too much for me. I have a taxi waiting for me. I figured this wouldn't take long."
She walked swiftly to the front door.
“Babbs,” Harlson said.
She paused, her back rude to him.
“Yes?” The reply was choked with sorrow.
“When it’s time- well, you know. I want you to be there, okay?”
“Of course I’ll be there,” Babbs said, turning around and embracing her brother.
He returned the hug. The surge of love he felt for his sister was spoiled by a spasm of regret. His job had robbed him of so much. Harlson had little family and fewer friends. But at least he wouldn't die alone.
Thank God for Babbs, he thought. And he didn't want to let go of her.
CHAPTER 11
Dreg gazed up at the full moon. His gaunt figure was bathed in silver on the shoulder of Interstate 45. There were no street lights at this particular stretch, just south of Huntsville, Texas. But the glow of the moon reveale
d all to the old hunter.
He sniffed the air, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as he felt a primal spirit rise from the depths of his being. The hunt would be good tonight.
Yes sur.
Dreg had the nine millimeter that had belonged to Ross Carson tucked into the back of his dusty pants. And though he was on foot tonight, Dreg could trek miles for his prey. He was fast and he didn't tire easily.
Hunting in this style kept the authorities far from his den. The gun was good to have. He could not easily tote his shotgun with him, not that he liked to hunt that way anymore, anyhow. He carried the gun with him only in the event that more highway patrolmen spotted him on the road.
The wolf was fighting to burst free from him. He could feel it gnawing at his gut. Tonight he would taste blood. He would hunt like the wolf. He would kill and then he would take the tastiest bits of his prey to his den.
The voice in his head, the one that always told him when it was time to find another den or time to move the hunt to another state, was quiet tonight. He hunted 45 in a hundred mile radius and he alternated his pattern each time. He took a car, when the voice told him to go further. And he walked, again when instructed and closer to his den. This kept the authorities in a constant state of confusion.
Tonight, the police would be bunched closer to Houston, where Dreg had plucked the pretty meat from her own den. Interstate 45 was a hunting ground too long to be constantly monitored by the cowboy-men. The prey would continue to use this route, speeding by in their cars, oblivious to the previous hunts or so self-consumed that they ignored the danger.
Stupid meat, Dreg observed. But easier than most critters to hunt. Yeh-heh.
This was Dreg’s favorite form of prey- humans who assumed nothing bad would ever happen to them. Like the big Highway patrolman who had stopped him on the road. Like the woman in the apartment complex who had thought that a locked door and a useless cur kept death at a reasonable distance.
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