He guided the disabled vehicle to a stop as far on to the shoulder as possible, not sure exactly why he was doing so. It wasn’t like a caravan of vehicles was likely to come charging down the road, smashing into his piece of shit little car. He tried to recall how long it had been since he had seen any other motorist and realized he couldn’t. It had been hours, and the storm wasn’t abating at all. If anything, its fury seemed to be intensifying.
He pounded his fists on the steering wheel in frustration. It was so unfair! He had worked his way out of a dangerous frigging situation and the moment he did he was beaten down by fate. As usual. Frank felt like it was a pretty fair representation of his whole trip. He had driven ten long hours up to Presque Isle and sold less than half of the hard drives and other computer components he needed to unload to break even, and then he had to fight the worsening storm the whole way back and now this.
Plus, Frank was getting cold. The temperature inside the car was beginning to drop noticeably, and it had only been a few minutes since he had struck the tree, setting this fiasco into motion. Frank kept a bag filled with supplies in his trunk for just this type of situation, and although he had never needed it before, he was thankful he had had the foresight to prepare for a worst-case scenario.
Getting to his bag was going to be a bitch, though, in this weather. Frank pulled on his light jacket and prepared to get drenched. His heavy winter parka, the one with the fur-lined hood that he could zip until it enclosed almost his entire face, was packed away in the trunk along with the rest of his supplies because he hated driving with such a big, bulky coat on.
Cursing fate one last time for emphasis, Frank opened the door. At least most of the major damage seemed to be limited to the right side of the car rather than the left. He wasn’t sure the passenger door would even open, crunched up as it was, but the door on his side was untouched and opened smoothly.
Rain poured in, soaking his head and neck and running under his shirt, down his chest and back. It was unbelievably cold; it took his breath away. He leapt from the car and staggered back to the trunk, fighting the gusty winds every step of the way. The freezing rain appeared to be flying sideways, and Frank wondered how long it would be before another tree fell across the road, crushing him like a bug and finally putting him out of his misery. Probably not before he had suffered long and hard, he decided.
He popped the trunk and pulled out the duffel bag containing his emergency gear. He yanked it clear and began trudging back toward the driver’s side door which he had foolishly left open, allowing the rain to soak the interior of the car. Frank shook his head in disgust and out of the corner of his eye saw what he would have sworn was a flash of dull red off to the right, moving rapidly through the woods.
A split second later, a sharp crack! echoed through the wind and freezing rain. It seemed to Frank like the noise originated in the general vicinity of that flash of red he wasn’t even sure he had just seen. It was loud, almost like the sound of thunder. But of course it wasn’t the sound of thunder; it couldn’t be. This wasn’t a thunderstorm.
Frank stopped in his tracks, a feeling of irrational dread filling his gut. Something was out there, just out of sight in the woods, and it seemed to Frank’s feverish mind to be tracking him. A bear, maybe? He had heard that black bears could be vicious and this was definitely black bear territory. Whatever it was, he was making himself too easy a target standing still in the driving rain and wind like an idiot.
He turned toward the open driver’s side door, and when he did he ran headlong into a gigantic figure. It appeared almost but not quite human and was monstrously large, clad in a tattered reddish-plaid wool hunting coat and soaking-wet, muddy jeans.
Frank let out a yelp of surprise and jumped back instinctively. He opened his mouth to say, “Thank God, I need some help here,” and then realized the man—if it even was a man—was staring at him, staring through him really, with eyes black and dead and devoid of any spark of life. They looked to Frank like the eyes of a shark sizing up its prey.
Panic took over and Frank turned to sprint in the opposite direction, away from the thing with the shark eyes that may or may not be a man. This would take him away from the shelter of the car, but Frank didn’t care. He wasn’t thinking about cars or shelter or anything else at the moment. Right now, all that mattered was getting away from that awful shambling thing behind him.
Three running steps later, the thing pulled him off the ground from behind, grabbing his jacket with two hands and lifting him high into the air. How that was even possible, Frank had no idea. He was a large man, tipping the scales at well over two hundred pounds. He couldn’t believe how quickly the monstrosity moved, especially considering its massive bulk. The thing had to be close to seven feet tall if it was an inch.
Frank looked down at the thing and decided it definitely resembled a gigantic beast now more than an actual human being, although its features seemed semi-human. Its hair was greasy and stringy and unwashed and its beard was the same. Clumps of straw and dead grass protruded at odd angles out of that shaggy hair, nestled securely into the tangled mess despite the high winds and driving rain.
The dark, red, wool coat hung unbuttoned, flapping loosely off the giant’s frame in the shrieking wind, and its jeans were torn and filthy. The thing hefted a terrified Frank Cheslo onto its shoulder, letting go of him momentarily but only to adjust its grip. It then lifted Frank high above its head and slammed him down onto the pavement.
Frank’s head bounced off the hard surface with a sickening wet SMACK! Bright lights flashed and danced in his vision, and he had a vague notion of blood splattering and mixing with the icy wetness in the road. It was an impressive amount of blood, and Frank realized it was all his blood. The pain was immense and the computer parts salesman kicked once, violently, and then his own internal hard drive failed and he was still.
18
MIKE MCMAHON WAVED WILDLY at a mosquito flying around his ear. He missed and it continued circling, over and over, buzzing relentlessly. He swatted again at the pesky insect, smacking himself in the head and raising a bruise just above his right ear, waking himself enough to realize that the annoying mosquito was actually Sharon Dupont’s alarm clock.
The offending clock sat on the nightstand next to his head, buzzing patiently, determined to torment him until switched off which, unfortunately, Mike had no idea how to do. He slapped at buttons and twisted knobs and succeeded only in turning on the radio, adding to the frustrating cacophony.
Finally, in a crushing admission of defeat, he nudged Sharon awake. She crawled over the top of him to turn the clock-radio off before falling back to sleep with her head resting on his chest. Mike tried to decide which sensation he preferred, the blessed silence from that damned alarm stopping or the feeling of Shari’s warm body lying on his and decided it was a no-brainer.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” he said, shaking her slim shoulders until she reluctantly reopened her eyes. “How do you ever make it to work on time when there’s nobody here to wake you up? There is usually no one here to wake you up, right?”
She smiled, her sleepy eyes brightening. “No, there’s not usually anyone here to wake me up. When I’m by myself I have to move the clock to the top of the dresser across the room. That forces me to get up to turn it off or else I’d never get to work before noon.” She slid out of bed, Mike enjoying the view as her silk nightdress caught on the covers and pulled up to her hips before slipping back into place, then wandered across the room and into the master bathroom, stifling a yawn. Seconds later he heard the water running in the shower.
After the incredible electricity that had passed between them when they touched hands last night, they had left a trail of clothing from the kitchen to the bedroom. He understood that putting himself in the potentially damaging position of sleeping with a subordinate was not the way to start his career as police chief in Paskagankee, but both he and Shari had desperately needed to make a connection with another human
being last night. It had felt right then, and it still felt right this morning.
There was no awkwardness, no sense of regret on Shari’s part, at least none that he could detect. There certainly wasn’t any on his part. Mike hadn’t been with a woman since Kate divorced him nearly a year ago, and the only emotion he felt right now was happiness—happiness that this beautiful young woman found him attractive, happiness that he had found someone he could talk to and happiness that he was finally able to enjoy intimacy again, even if it was only temporary.
Sharon had confided her deepest secrets and darkest fears to him last night but rather than driving him away as she had clearly feared they would, they served to make her all the more attractive to him. And that only made sense. After all, he was damaged goods himself; he knew from bitter experience with Kate that it took a special woman to fight her way past the burden of guilt he carried around like a ball and chain. The way Mike saw it, Sharon’s battle with alcoholism was a direct result of her unfortunate upbringing and thus not really her fault at all. He, on the other hand, had made a conscious decision to take the disastrous shot back in Revere. He wondered how she could even stand to be around him without judging him as harshly as he judged himself.
The sound of the shower stopped in the master bathroom and a few minutes later Sharon walked out, water dripping off the ends of her short black hair, bath towel wrapped around her otherwise naked body. Mike wolf-whistled and Sharon curtsied. “Take it all off!” he said, but she blew him a raspberry and disappeared back into the bathroom after pulling a clean uniform out of her closet.
Mike would have to dress in yesterday’s uniform since there was not enough time to stop at his apartment before going to the scene of Harvey Crosker’s grisly murder to start the eight a.m. search for evidence, but he didn’t care. It seemed a small price to pay in exchange for the evening he had spent with this beautiful, sexy woman.
As Sharon opened the bathroom door and stepped out, dressed in her blue and grey Paskagankee Police uniform, Mike admired the way the fit of the trousers and button-down blouse accentuated her figure and decided that if her picture were ever placed on a poster for recruiting, the ranks of law enforcement everywhere would skyrocket. “You planning on lazing around in my bed all day?” she teased.
“That all depends,” he shot back. “Will you join me if I do?”
“Some of us have work to do.”
“Man, your boss must be a real bastard,” he said.
Sharon laughed. “You have no idea.”
Mike grunted in mock indignation and finally arose, padding to the bathroom. The air was heavy and moist from Sharon’s shower and smelled vaguely of cinnamon. Mike was reminded of the taste of her kiss and smiled. “Black, no sugar,” he shouted through the door.
“You’ll take it the way I give it to you,” she shouted back.
“Now you’re talking my language,” Mike retorted. He pictured Sharon simultaneously grinning and blushing.
He shaved quickly using Sharon’s razor and hoped it hadn’t been too long since she had replaced the blade. He pictured himself trying to explain to the rest of the department why his face was cut to ribbons but was relieved to discover the blade was nice and sharp.
After completing his shower, Mike walked into Sharon’s bedroom wrapped in a towel and found his uniform, his underwear and even his socks lying on her bed freshly laundered and wrinkle-free. He smiled in appreciation and pulled on his clothes as Sharon wandered into the room carrying two large mugs of coffee. She handed him one and he asked, “When the hell did you get around to washing my stuff?”
“I got up last night and threw it all in the machine while you were sleeping and then again an hour later to transfer it to the dryer. It’s no big deal,” she said, shrugging.
“I can’t believe I didn’t wake up while you were running around working so hard.”
“I can,” she said, laughing. “Did your ex-wife ever tell you that you snore like a freight train?”
“She never mentioned it. And how does a freight train snore, exactly?”
“You know what I mean. It sounds like a logging train is passing by every time you breathe. I could bring a heavy metal band in here and you wouldn’t wake up.”
“Hmph,” he grumbled. “As long as you’re only bringing them in to play music.”
They moved to Sharon’s kitchen and bantered back and forth easily as they drank their coffee and prepared to start the day. Mike felt more normal than he had in a very long time, and if Sharon felt any guilt or regrets about last night, she didn’t show it.
The storm appeared to have abated, at least for the time being. They stepped outside under clouds roiling black and low and menacing. The wind-whipped freezing rain threatened to resume at any moment, but for now nothing fell from the sky, a welcome change from nasty weather of the past few days. Ice glittered on every outdoor surface—on tree branches, on the ground, and on power lines sagging dangerously from the poles out by the road. Mike was amazed Sharon hadn’t lost power yet, and as far as he knew nobody in Paskagankee had, which seemed a minor miracle.
The road conditions had improved little over the past eight hours even though the freezing rain stopped falling sometime overnight. The four-wheel drive Explorer slipped and slid along Route 24, eventually arriving at the turnoff where the officers were gathering to hike through the thick forest to the crime scene. Although thankful the weather finally showed signs of breaking, Mike was concerned the people of Paskagankee would interpret the improvement as a sign they could safely take to the roads again, resulting in auto accidents, damage and injury.
So far the roads were mostly empty, but it was still early, and as the morning went on, Mike knew things could get extremely busy for his department. Auto accidents would force him to sacrifice valuable manpower that could otherwise be utilized to search for evidence in the Crosker murder if the temperature didn’t begin to rise at least enough to melt a significant portion of the ice coating the roads.
The last officers were just arriving from the direction of the tiny downtown area as the Explorer rolled to a stop and Mike and Sharon stepped out. He saw looks pass between several of his officers, even a smirk crossing the face of one or two, and elected to say nothing for the time being. There were more important matters to consider at the moment than who was sleeping with whom.
Mike gathered the group of officers in a semicircle around him on the edge of the massive forest. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” he said. “We’ll start at the site where Mr. Crosker’s remains were found and fan out in each direction, moving north initially and repeating the procedure as many times as necessary to cover three hundred sixty degrees. Everyone will stay in sight of at least one other officer at all times.
“We’re looking for footprints or possibly a piece of clothing that might have caught on a branch and torn; anything, really, but especially be on the lookout for blood evidence. This man’s head was torn completely off his body. It strains the limits of credulity to think there is nothing for us to find. I don’t care how much rain fell or how windy it was or how much ice is on the ground, there has to be evidence out there and we’re going to find it.
“But remember, and I can’t stress this enough, until we know who or what the hell we’re dealing with here, I want every single officer to remain in sight of at least one other member of this force at all times. Is everyone clear on that?”
Heads nodded and feet shuffled; the smell of coffee filled the air as practically everyone clutched a Styrofoam cup. “Okay,” Mike said after a moment. “Any questions?”
Someone to Mike’s right said something under his breath and a few men snickered, the laughter dying out quickly as they got a look at Mike’s face, red with fury. “A man was decapitated in these woods yesterday less than two miles from here. If anyone finds that funny, you can step to the front of the line and hand me your badge and gun right now. Who wants to be first?”
More feet shuffled an
d this time eyes drilled holes in the ground as everyone found cause to examine their footwear. “I didn’t think so,” Mike said. “Now let’s get moving and find something that will help us determine what the hell happened out there yesterday.”
The group trudged single file into the forest along the narrow trail. The department owned several ATV’s for use in this type of situation, but Mike had decided the terrain in this part of Paskagankee was so treacherous, so littered with downed trees and branches, so slippery with ice, that it was simply impossible to reach the area where Harvey Crosker’s remains had been discovered by any means other than on foot.
Each officer had come dressed for the conditions, and the skies, though dark and threatening, had yet to resume pelting the area with freezing rain, so the trip to the crime scene went much faster than it had yesterday. They reached the clearing with yellow police crime scene tape strung around the tree that had held Harvey Crosker’s disembodied head and immediately formed a line, with each officer placed approximately eight feet from the next.
The group moved slowly and deliberately into the deep forest, everyone doing his or her best to maintain the eight foot distance from the person on either side while concentrating on sweeping the terrain with their eyes. It was exhausting work, with scrub brush, dead trees and branches, stumps and other forest debris to climb over, through and around. Adding to the complexity, given the circumstances surrounding the placement of the victim’s head, the searchers were forced to search high up into the surrounding trees as well as along the ground.
They worked slowly and for the most part silently, concentrating on the job at hand. Occasionally someone would mumble something to a neighbor, but the search was largely a solitary undertaking despite the fact that a dozen people were taking part. They moved farther and farther into the thick woods, finally suspending the search after two hours without a single positive result. They returned to the oak tree at the center of the investigation and took a short break, preparing to resume the search in a different direction.
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