Texas Strange

by West, Terry M.

  Still now, he demanded of himself. Be still.

  Dreg heard two car doors open.

  “Stay back, babe.” A man’s voice. Deep tone. Big man.

  “Be careful, George.” His mate. Soft, feminine voice.

  Come closer, meat, Dreg thought, resisting the urge to smile at his craftiness.

  As if in response to his silent bidding, Dreg heard heavy boots fall upon the road. Big man, yes sur. But big men fall hard.

  As the footsteps closed the distance to Dreg, the headlights were eclipsed by the man’s frame.

  Dreg could visualize the prey squatting down on his haunches to inspect the motionless body. Dreg waited until he felt breath on him, and then his eyes snapped open. He sprang up, growling at the wide-eyed rotund man who fell back in fear.

  Dreg reached below the man’s fleshy jowl and grabbed his throat.

  The man's fat hands grasped Dreg’s wrist. He tried to ward off the impending death grip.

  Dreg used his free hand and grasped the shoulder of the man’s sweaty shirt for support. Dreg drove his fingers further into the protesting flesh. He pulled his hand back an instant later and he brought the man’s Adam's apple out with it. Red streams of blood followed Dreg's prize and it saturated his arm.

  The man fell backwards onto the road. He clawed at his face like a newborn infant while his life pumped out of the hole in his throat.

  The man loudly gurgled blood. Then he shuddered and his body froze. His swiftly dulling eyes stared up at the moon. His last breath popped a crimson bubble on his torn throat.

  Dreg looked up at the woman, and he was most pleased to see that fear had paralyzed the pretty meat. She could have easily climbed into the car and sped off, but instead she stood in front of the car, clutching her throat empathetically. Her pale face was vacant.

  Dreg approached her slowly- patiently.

  She stared at him stupidly, terror strangling her. The woman was quite attractive. She had dark, long hair. Blue eyes, big with fright, but beautiful nonetheless. Full, thick lips. Her figure was full, meaty but firm.

  He caressed the woman’s cheek. She didn’t even flinch.

  Dreg stood close to the woman, appreciating her beauty. He was old, but the span of several seasons had not diluted desires like the one that was now causing his loins to warm.

  He ripped the woman’s blouse open, exposing her full breasts to the night breeze. Dreg would have this woman. He turned her around and he shoved her over the car. Dreg pulled her cotton skirt up and he tore away her panties. He held her by the back of her neck, though she didn’t resist.

  She was empty inside.

  Dreg started to undo his pants and then he caught himself.

  What is you doin’? he thought.

  He lived by the way of the wolf. He could not have this woman. She was his prey. But he wanted her so intensely, and now she was open before him.

  Dreg looked up at the stern, ever watchful eye of Le Loup. This was wrong. This was the hunt. He could not go against his grain. He hadn’t before, and he couldn’t start now. Dreg zipped himself back up. He felt the wolf shove the man deep down.

  “Yes sur,” he whispered, eyes shut, head nodding softly and grin spreading across his face. “By the way of the wolf.”

  Dreg gently pulled the woman up, embracing her and sighing at his lot.

  Being true to one’s self called for sacrifice at times. He would remember this one fondly. He would touch himself to her image, perhaps.

  But he would not taint the hunt.

  Dreg held her for a spell. He hummed a Cajun lullaby and he stroked her head gently. Her breast was shoved against his. Dreg could feel the fear fighting to explode from her chest.

  “Soon,” he promised, kissing the woman’s cheek.

  With the grace of a worldly lover, Dreg craned his head to the woman’s neck. He licked perfume from her quivering flesh. Her blood called to him.

  He tore her throat open. The hot rush of blood that came from her looked blue and silver, like everything else glowing under the moon. The woman's body convulsed. She wheezed pitifully, and then she went limp. There was no more life or fear in her.

  Dreg released the woman and she thudded hard against the road. He pulled a large knife from the hidden sheath in his boot.

  He walked over to the side of the road. Dreg searched for a tree that could support dead weight.

  CHAPTER 15

  Harlson stood at the threshold of the bathroom. His partner, a ten year veteran of the force named Stuart Crowson, was in the living room trying to console the girl’s parents- the Landrys. A meat wagon was en route.

  Harlson stared at Susan Landry. Her flesh was drained. She had slit her wrists while sitting on the shitter. Twelve years old. It was so awful and wrong. Terribly wrong. She had managed to extend both of her middle fingers on her dead hands as if to say-

  "Fuck you world, I’m out of here," she muttered through black lips.

  Harlson fell back in shock as her lackluster eyes fixed on him.

  "And so are you, Billy."

  The dead girl smiled at him.

  "So are you."

  The pain woke Harlson.

  He had passed out on the sofa after consuming several beers. He rolled into a ball, trying to squelch the intense burning in his abdomen.

  Tears streamed down his face.

  His mind screamed with agony and panic…oh God…I’m going to die…hurts, hurts…only fifty-three years old and I won’t live to see fifty-four…

  Harlson screamed angrily, cursing his cowardice.

  He was crying like a pussy. Harlson clutched his stomach and he reached for the pain killers on the coffee table. The movement worsened the pain. Breathing worsened the pain. Cursing God and red meat worsened the pain.

  He knocked a crumpled beer can aside and gripped the pill bottle, snapping the child proof cap off with his teeth. He shook three into his mouth, washing the pain killers down with stale beer. He spilled tablets on the sofa when a stronger spasm of pain flared in his gut.

  He thought he might puke, but he was able to resist the urge. He cried and twisted in this torture for a full half hour before the pain slowly began to melt away.

  Better make peace with your God, he thought, panting and sweating like a hog in heat. Looks like the doctor was being very fucking optimistic when he gave you a year.

  The pain finally ebbed to a more comfortable, dull ache. He wanted coffee, but no breakfast. Nausea swam in him at the thought of food.

  Harlson rose from the sofa, pausing to break wind, and then he slowly worked his way to the kitchen, glancing at the digital clock propped on the television set.

  6:45AM

  Harlson washed out the coffee pot, which was half full. He always made too much coffee, but he couldn’t find that damn chart that came with the coffee machine and he wasn’t going to experiment with something as important as his morning java. Making too much was wasteful, but at least he had two decent cups of starter ups before he left for the precinct.

  Harlson went back to the living room, reaching inside his briefs and scratching himself absently. He made a detour to the can before having his morning cigarette and stood for a full three minutes, urinating yesterday’s beer and coffee.

  He emerged, feeling more spry now, and he thought that for a dead man walking, he was faring pretty well.

  Harlson always felt the intruder in his abdomen. The cancer was constantly present, twisting him in sadistic waves of pain, especially in the wee hours of the night or early hours of the morning. But he was dealing with it.

  It was that stubborn Cherokee blood he had inherited from his grandmother Pearl. She had been a tough old bird, true to heritage, telling Harlson in the final hours of her life that was taken by unchecked diabetes about her late grandfather who had climbed a high mountain when it was his time to die, writhing in spiritual ecstasy to the hallucinations brought on by paote. Pearl had died in a hospital, pain killers pumped into her. Her feet and
legs had been riddled by gangrene. Pearl's final, feverish breath spoke of the spirit that had come to take her away.

  "It's a turtle, Billy," she had said to Harlson while gripping his hand. She had always maintained that a turtle had been her spirit animal, so it made sense that it had come for her at the end.

  "I’m ready," she had replied, looking at the empty space beside her children and grandchildren.

  And then she crossed her arms, closed her eyes, and her tormented body was devoid of soul.

  Harlson had thought it unfair. Pearl should have been allowed to climb her mountain. He should be allowed to climb his. But there weren’t mountains in Houston, Texas.

  He had thought at one time that he wanted a room full of people around him when he died. Now, he thought better of that. Babbs would be there, and he could deal with that. Babbs respected his wishes, even if she disagreed with them. He could picture the end in his mind: Babbs would be at his bedside and they would act like children again, laughing and joking about whether his bedpan was half full or half empty and there would be no last ditch effort to continue his existence, not that there could be.

  His spirit animal would come for him. It would be a bear, because Pearl had said that Harlson was strong and confident and that he stood against adversity. And when he saw that spirit animal of his, he would turn to Babbs and say, ‘See you around Babbs. My ride is here,'. And she would reply, ‘I hope being a slob isn’t a sin or you might hit a roadblock at the pearly gates’. And that would be it.

  But, before that, he had a killer to catch. This was going to be his last hurrah. The Keepsake Killer had eluded the best in law enforcement, but now he was up against a dying, determined half-bred who was every bit a hunter.

  I’m your Waterloo, mother fucker, Harlson swore, finding his cigarette pack in yesterday’s shirt pocket. He took inventory and found that the pack contained only three sticks. He made a note to make sure the last one was lit as he headed out of the apartment and struck one up with a lighter that needed more fluid.

  The aroma of fresh coffee lured him back into the kitchen. He poured himself a cup, after finding a mug free of algae build up, and sipped at it easily, not wanting to work his insides back up into turmoil.

  He walked over to the huge window in the living room, the only outlet from the dark, brooding studio that he sometimes suspected reflected the darkness within himself, and he drew open the blinds. The gray morning poured dreary brightness into his hellhole. He gazed out at the dilapidated projects of the fifth ward, scant blocks from his apartment.

  Homes, long condemned and forgotten by the city, now were disease and rodent infested havens for the poverty-stricken. Street people moved at feverish and paranoid paces, their addictions either keeping them up all night or prompting them up early for a quick deal made with found, stolen, or rarely earned money.

  All of a sudden, Harlson wondered if he would miss this shitty world.

  Highway 59, visible beyond the convention center, was gathering traffic. Harlson glanced at his clock.

  7:15AM

  “Shit”, he muttered, heading back into the can. He had to be downtown by eight o’clock, which wasn’t that far a trip, but he had to put himself together, and that would take time.

  In the bathroom he sniffed at his towels until he found one that didn’t smell like it had too many miles on it, and he opened his medicine cabinet. He looked into the mirror.

  Shit, dead man walking all right, he thought, staring at the sickly pallor of his skin.

  Harlson needed the full treatment, and he pulled all the bottles and boxes out of the cabinet. Eye drops, nasal spray, aspirin, decongestants, cough syrup and suppressants. Preventive maintenance. Summers were cruel, especially on a dying man, and he wanted all of the bases covered.

  “The patchwork man,” he muttered, reaching for his toothbrush and smoker’s tooth polish.

  CHAPTER 16

  A nasty muscle spasm woke Lucas with a jolt. He sat upright on the sofa, rubbing the back of his neck and wishing that he had brought a pillow into the living room with him.

  Lucas glanced at the clock on his VCR.

  8:10AM

  “Morning, honey,” Tammy called from the kitchen.

  He turned too quickly to look at her and he winced in pain. Tammy stood behind the breakfast bar. She was wearing her robe, sipping a cup of coffee and staring blandly at the twelve-inch kitchen television.

  Lucas stood up, the sudden surge sending his head into a pounding rage.

  He gripped his forehead and he literally tried to shake the cobwebs loose, visualizing them melt away. The action only served to increase the pain. Coffee and aspirin, he thought, walking groggily toward the kitchen.

  Tammy chuckled, as she was always amused by Lucas’ morning zombie march.

  “You look cheerful this morning,” Tammy teased, smiling.

  Lucas smiled above his grimace, wondering why he had married a morning person. He yawned and rubbed his eyes.

  It was time for their morning kiss routine. Tammy always wanted a big kiss on the mouth, even before Lucas had a chance to gargle. Lucas turned his head and Tammy planted one on his cheek.

  "I didn't consign you to the couch," Tammy said. "I was surprised to find you there this morning."

  "Yeah, I had trouble sleeping. I had a lot of work thoughts going on in my head."

  “Did you get enough rest?” Tammy asked, filling a cup for Lucas.

  “Yeah,” Lucas lied. He had slept maybe two hours. He didn't want to work up her again about the state of his health.

  Lucas had managed to get Tammy’s blessing to work on his present case, and she seemed to be pretty chipper about the whole thing despite her angry display the night before. So Lucas decided to lie about his insomnia and to downplay his migraines until the case was over.

  He suspected that Tammy knew he was lying, because he wasn't very good at deceiving her. Luke had passed out on the sofa and he had to look pretty rough from the lack of sleep. But he wasn’t going to whine anymore. Tammy was keeping a stiff upper lip, and he would, too.

  “So, what are you doing today?” Tammy asked. She put a plate of toast, bacon, vitamins and aspirin in front of Lucas.

  “Thanks,” Lucas said. He washed the aspirin down with hot coffee. “I have to be downtown by ten. I don’t know exactly why.”

  Lucas wasn’t hungry, but he forced down the toast and bacon to please Tammy.

  “It looks like your appetite is returning,” Tammy marveled, whisking the plate away. “Want seconds?”

  “No, honey. I’m fine.”

  The Glover family morning tradition followed its usual course, beginning with a quick scan through the Houston Post and ending with a hot shower. Lucas was ready to go by nine.

  Tammy stood at the door with Lucas, adjusting his tie. Concern finally began to crack the mask of suburban contentment she had been wearing all morning.

  “Be careful,” she muttered, staring into his chest.

  He lifted her chin until their eyes mingled.

  “Of course I will. You’ll kill me if anything happens to me, right?” he teased.

  “Yeah,” Tammy said, laughing softly and resting her head against him.

  The embrace was silent and tender.

  Tammy finally broke the silence.

  “I’m not happy about this,” she said, maintaining the embrace.

  He squeezed her harder. “I know.”

  “I saw the news this morning,” Tammy said. “I don’t normally watch it that much. It depresses me. But I watched it this morning. They had a spot about the killer. They recapped all of the recent murders and described what he did to them. I know why you want to catch this guy. I guess, I want you to catch this guy. Just walk away from it in one piece, okay?”

  “It’ll be over soon,” Lucas promised, kissing Tammy’s forehead.

  “Was that wishful thinking or precognition, Mr. Glover?” Tammy said, tugging him closer by the lapels of his jacket.
<
br />   “A little of both,” Lucas replied, with a hopeful smile.

  CHAPTER 17

  Ricky Lee twisted the top off of a bottle of orange juice and he washed down a mouthful of microwave burrito that tasted like cardboard.

  He was sitting on the hood of his car, which was parked on the edge of Lake Dallas.

  He had been there since dawn, making sure that Hazel was properly weighted down and that she wouldn’t come bobbing up to the surface of the brown water.

  The summer morning was quiet and the temperature was pleasant by the lake this early in the day.

  Nice for a dip.

  The bright sun shone on the lake, giving a golden aura to the tranquil surroundings. Ricky got a kick out of that. This quiet Eden hid the ugly climax of his violent and squishy deed. Ricky quietly appreciated the summer green of drooping tree limbs, gray moss at their tips which barely caressed the surface of the water like a skilled lover trying to raise goose bumps on soft flesh.

  Yes sir, it was beautiful but also pretty fucking boring. His mind was in a lull, and that would only bring back memories from his past that he was determined to leave behind with the corpses he dunked.

  Women, he thought, tossing the orange juice into the drink and causing a rupture of rings on the calm water. It all boiled down to women. Can't live with them. Can't kill the same one more than once.

  The memories were coming back. They were practically storming the gates.

  …little bastard Ricky wants to fuck his mother…little bastard Ricky puts on mother’s clothes when she’s out all night with one of her many boyfriends…little bastard Ricky lets mother touch him sometimes, when her boyfriends don’t come around…

  Ricky screamed, stood up, and he punched himself in the side of his head. He nearly knocked himself out. He shook his head for clarity and he found the memories still buzzing strongly in his skull.

  “Get the fuck out!” he demanded of the past.

  But the memories continued, parading his mother’s nude image, quivering with orgasm, beneath his own body.

  Ricky took a lighter from his shirt pocket and he lit it under his left hand. The pain took away the stubborn memories, and he smiled as the flame blackened his flesh, and he took it away only when he was sure that his mind had been cleansed of the images.