Limbus, Inc. Book II

by Brett J. Talley

  “Again I say, in the rain?”

  No one bothered to answer that. I squatted by the tire tracks. “No way these were made during the storm. Look at the ridges in the mud. Even if it was drizzling, they’d be smeared more than this.”

  They nodded.

  “And over here,” I said, moving from the road onto the dirt, to a point halfway to the impact point. “See how deep it is here? The bike accelerated right here. Right when the bike was lined up with the tree.”

  They nodded.

  I went over to the bike now and bent over it, touching various points on the fractured frame. “This is all wrong. It looked like the bike was starting to tilt away from the line of impact, like the driver was trying to avoid collision by ditching sideways. That would be the natural thing, even if you lose control in the dark. But look at the underside of the frame, right here. That’s crumpled the wrong way. It should be pushed up but it’s pushed in. That means the bike, while slewing sideways was starting to stand back up.”

  “And what does that tell you?” asked Crow.

  “It tells me that whoever was riding this bike jumped off right before it hit. Jumped off with a hell of a lot of force, enough to nearly stand the bike up while it was falling over. If that was the case, then the body should have landed over here. He wouldn’t have been on the bike when it hit. At most, he’d have gotten a leg trapped under it, but he wouldn’t have hit the tree hard enough to be splattered.”

  Crow said, “That’s pretty good. What else?”

  I bent over the bike again and spent some time with it. I’ve seen a lot of car and motorcycle accidents, accidental and criminal. I’ve also seen some faked accidents before. I’ve been in court plenty of times to hear expert testimony on the physics of high-speed vehicular impacts. What I was seeing here didn’t square with my understanding of cause and effect. I said as much to them.

  “This isn’t something you probably want to put in your official report,” I began, “but I think someone bent this bike around the tree.”

  “Bent,” said Crow.

  “Bent.”

  “That would take a lot of muscle.”

  “It would.”

  “Could you do it?”

  I thought about it for a moment. “No. Under certain, um, circumstances, I could mangle it pretty good, but some of these bends…no. I couldn’t.”

  “Which brings us to our problem, Mr. Consultant.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Mike and I walked this site together and we came up with the same read on it that you gave us. Nice work, by the way.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Once the forensics guys were gone, I asked Mike to see if he could duplicate those bends.”

  I stared at him. And at Mike, who continued to make his matchstick bob slowly up and down. “Well,” I said, “that must have been interesting.”

  “It was instructive,” admitted Crow. “Mike was able to bend it a little. But that was with the frame already fatigued and cracked. And, trust me when I say this, Mike is a very, very strong young man.”

  “Knock it off, Crow,” said Mike.

  “I’m making a point here.”

  Mike looked at the trees and sighed slowly.

  “So,” continued Crow, “what I’m wondering is whether you and Mike working together—under, as you say, certain circumstances—could do that kind of damage.”

  It was an interesting question.

  We all stood there and thought about it.

  I shook my head first. Then Mike.

  “No,” I said, “not even together.”

  Crow nodded. “What I thought. But someone did. And either it was one very, very, very strong son of a bitch—someone way outside of the normal range. Or…whatever passes for normal with you guys.”

  I said nothing.

  “Or we’re dealing with something even worse. Something that’s stronger than two werewolves.”

  I said, “Well, shit.”

  Mike Sweeney grinned. “Yeah, and isn’t that interesting as all shit?”

  Chap. 25

  The killer moved away from the kill site.

  He was confused by the presence of two others like him. That was wrong. That made no sense. There should only be one wolf in these woods. The big, red-haired one. The one who seemed to belong here.

  But now this other one was here.

  The killer did not like it.

  He wasn’t afraid, though. Fear was not a factor in the killer’s life. Not now anyway. He was beyond that now.

  He faded into the woods and vanished.

  Chap. 26

  “The victim,” I said. “The wounds in those photos…what’s the coroner going to say about it?”

  “Exactly what I want him to say,” said Crow.

  “He, um…knows?”

  “He’s the coroner for Pine Deep, Pennsylvania. He’s come to accept certain realities.”

  “Shit.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “But we all know those aren’t injuries sustained in a crash.”

  “My guess,” said Crow, “is that the body was torn up pretty good by whoever our Big Bad is, and then dropped off a roof. There are visible impact injuries.”

  “Unless they’re stupid they’d have to know that an autopsy would—”

  “We can assume they didn’t choose Pine Deep by accident.”

  “Meaning you can keep secrets?”

  “Meaning we’ve had to keep secrets.”

  Mike snorted but didn’t say anything.

  I walked past the scene into the woods and stood there for a while, letting the smells and sounds tell me whatever they wanted to share. After a few moments, Crow and Mike joined me.

  “Shame it rained so hard last night,” Crow said. “No scent to follow.”

  I glanced at Mike. “You tried?”

  He shrugged. “Sure. Lots of scents, but they’re all mingled. Rain, you know?”

  I nodded. “Makes me wonder if the rain was part of an agenda. Not just to fake the slip and slide crash, but to wash away any useful spoor.”

  Mike grunted and nodded.

  “What were the other crash sites like?” I asked.

  “Similar,” said Crow. “In each case there was some kind of accident—car wreck, farm accident, house fire—but the details don’t completely square. Especially the pathology. Someone’s killing people and doing a slightly better than half-assed job covering it up.”

  “Yeah, but how would a regular police department be reacting to this?”

  Crow nodded his approval. “I did some checking to see if there are any similarly troubled cases.”

  “And?”

  “There were four suspicious fatal accidents in upstate New York last August, in the Finger Lakes district. All ultimately ruled accidental, but with notations about anomalies in the case files. Another two in Cape May, New Jersey, in December. Same conclusions. And three out near Pittsburgh this past May. The pattern is the same. A couple of the investigating detectives have been sharing case information in hopes of getting somewhere, but there’s so little conventional evidence that they keep hitting a wall.”

  “Because they don’t have certain specialized knowledge,” I suggested.

  “Yup.”

  “This is interstate,” I said. “That makes it Federal. A serial killer?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Shame there isn’t really something like the X-Files. Fox Mulder would go nuts for something like this.”

  “Can’t call him, can’t call the Ghostbusters,” he said. “If wishes were horses.”

  We stood there and looked at the huge forest. Oaks and sycamores and pines, with underbrush so dense it seemed impenetrable.

  “What do you know about the vics?” I asked.

  Crow fielded that. “No obvious connections. Not between the victims here in Pine Deep or between ours and those in other towns. I have someone doing background checks—a computer geek friend of mine—but so far we got bu
pkiss.”

  “Balls,” I said.

  “Balls,” he agreed.

  Chap. 27

  The killer ran through the darkening woods, exulting in the power that rippled through his muscles. The solidity of his bones. The song of hunger that shouted in his blood.

  He would find something to kill.

  Anything.

  Animal.

  Human.

  Even a bear.

  Anything that would scream.

  Thinking red thoughts, he ran.

  Chap. 28

  We spent the rest of the afternoon going over the crime scene, which yielded a lot of information, none of which seemed particularly useful. Then we went back to the station and Crow walked me through the rest of the case file. Again, lots of forensic information—photos, hair and fiber samples, casts of tire tracks, coroner’s reports, the works.

  Bottom line?

  Well, shit. We knew there was one or more werewolf killing people.

  They were doing it in bunches and, apparently, moving on.

  Motive? Unknown.

  Identity? Unknown.

  Anything of actual use?

  Impossible to say.

  “Have you reached out to the FBI about this?” I asked.

  “I filed a report.”

  “And—?”

  “You familiar with the word ‘obfuscation?’”

  “Ah.”

  “What about your own investigation? Do you have any leads?”

  “Beyond guesswork on the nature of the killers?”

  “Beyond that, yes.”

  “Nope.”

  “Oh.”

  “But,” he said, “I’ve been hearing about strangers in town.”

  “What kind of strangers?”

  “Unknown. I have my people running that down right now. All I know is that there have been a few out-of-towners around. One of them was over at the Scarecrow Inn asking questions about the accident. And either the same guy or a different guy asking questions at some of the farms.”

  “You have a description on him?”

  “Big, blond guy. The one local I talked to said he looked ‘mean.’”

  “That’s it?”

  “Getting information from stubborn farm-country folk is like pulling your own teeth. You’ll get it, but there’s a lot of unpleasant effort involved.”

  “Ah. This guy flash a badge of any kind?”

  “Not so far.”

  “You think he’s a Fed?”

  “Maybe. Who else would be asking questions?”

  I thought about it. “Could be another P.I., maybe hired by the family of one of the victims.”

  “Our vics were locals.”

  “A vic from another town.”

  Crow pursed his lips, nodded. “Maybe. I’ll bet a shiny nickel it’s a Fed.”

  “There’s another possibility.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Could be someone related to the killings asking around to see what the locals know.”

  “Or suspect,” he suggested.

  “Or suspect,” I agreed.

  We poked at it for another couple of minutes and got nowhere. Then I suggested we retire to the local bar and drown our sorrows in some beers. Crow smiled and shook his head.

  “Gave up drinking. I go to meetings now.”

  “Balls.”

  “Mike doesn’t drink, either.”

  “He in the same Twelve Step?”

  “No. He’s a purity freak. Organic foods, no drugs, no alcohol. Won’t even take an aspirin.”

  “How come?”

  Crow sucked his teeth for a moment. “He has some health concerns. He wants to make sure he stays ahead of them.”

  “Like…?”

  “Like it’s his business and there’s no second half to this discussion.” He said it pleasantly enough, but there was a finality to it.

  “Well, shit,” I said. “I need a beer. Maybe six or eight of them.”

  I left him at his office and walked up the street until I found a place called the Scarecrow Inn. It wasn’t exactly a dive bar. Dive is an active word. This was more like “dove.“ Past tense. Dark as pockets. Bunch of little tables with old wooden chairs that didn’t match. Visible ass-wear on the stools. Sawdust on the floor, like they do down south. Half the people were ignoring the No Smoking sign, including a table full of fat guys with cigars. A wooden bar that was probably two hundred years old, and a bartender who looked to have been here since the place was built. Tall, cadaverous, comprehensively wrinkled. Big jar of hard-boiled eggs by the beer taps. Country music on the jukebox. Travis Tritt, I think, but I’m not a country fan so what do I know.

  I found an empty stool, ordered chili and a schooner of Yuengling to go with it. Dug into a bowl of peanuts while I was waiting.

  Crow let me take the case file, so I made my way through the chili and two beers while reading every single word. I had a few pages of notes, mostly outside-chance connections I’d run down when I was in front of a computer again. I’d brought my iPad, but—big surprise—there was no Wi-Fi in the Scarecrow Inn. Too modern for them. They’re probably still grousing about those newfangled electric lights.

  As I read I became very slowly and subtly aware that I was being watched. At first I passed it off as the usual stranger-in-town thing, but then my spider sense really began tingling. So I used taking a sip of beer to check the room out in the mirror behind the bar. Everyone was a stranger, so that wasn’t very helpful. There were about two dozen people in the place, either dressed for work on a farm or in casual clothes.

  Then I spotted the two people who didn’t belong.

  They were seated alone at tables on opposite sides of the place, and they were so totally different from one another that it looked like they were here to make a statement. White guy, black guy. White guy was big in a jock ballplayer way. Not big like Mike Sweeney or the goons I danced with yesterday. Muscular, midthirties, blond. All-American looks. Kind of like the guy who plays Captain America in the movies. Mean-looking son of a bitch, though. Could be a cop, could be a soldier. Could be a freelance shooter. Something very dangerous about him. I could tell that right off. Sat there with half a smile on his face, nursing a beer, using the same mirror I was using to watch the other guy and, every once in a while, me.

  The other guy was a black twenty-something. Short, skinny, bookish, with thick glasses and a fringe of beard. Not the only black guy I’d seen in Pine Deep, but one of maybe three or four. Gave off a pop-culture geek vibe.

  The Geek was looking at me; the Jock was looking at him. And me.

  I adjusted the way I was sitting so my gun was a little easier to reach.

  The Geek caught me looking at him and looked away.

  Then he looked back.

  He did that a couple of times, and I kept looking at him until he caught and finally held my stare. I nodded. After a long five-count, he nodded back.

  So, I figured fuck it. I picked up my beer and walked over to his table. For a moment, I thought he was going to bolt. He sat straight as a rake handle and looked up at me. I’m not that big, and I’m not what you’d call physically imposing. I’ve been told, however, that I give off a certain vibe. At times.

  Like now.

  He cut a look to the front door and then back at me. At close range I figured him closer to early twenties.

  But here’s the thing.

  At close range, I could tell something about him I couldn’t tell from across a smoky bar.

  The kid had a certain scent.

  A familiar scent. The kind I spent a lot of time every morning, with shampoo, skin creams and cologne trying to mask.

  A smell most people can’t smell.

  Except guys like Mike Sweeney.

  He looked up at me, and before I could even ask, he said, “I think we need to talk.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I think we’d better.”

  “Not here.”

  I nodded to the door. “Let’s go.”


  Chap. 29

  The killer smelled the hitchhiker before he saw her.

  She smelled young.

  She smelled afraid.

  He knew that she would taste wonderful.

  He knew that she would scream.

  The young ones always screamed. They have so much to lose.

  He raced down a hill and up the other side, then down again to the road. This was a lonely stretch. A stupid place for anyone to hitchhike. She couldn’t have known that or she wouldn’t have come this way.

  Chap. 30

  I stood aside to let him go first. If this was some kind of elaborate setup, I didn’t want to be the first guy through the door.

  It wasn’t.

  The kid stopped in the middle of the pavement, hands in his pockets. He wore a long black coat over jeans and a T-shirt with the words OBSCURE POP-CULTURE REFERENCE stenciled on it. He looked nervous. Maybe scared.

  “There’s a park up the street,” he said, and we began walking that way.

  “Let’s start with the basics,” I said. “Name?”

  He hesitated.

  I said, “Would you rather I held you down and stole your wallet?”

  “Antonio,” he said. “Antonio Jones.”

  “Real name?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Sounds like a stage name.”

  He shrugged. “Antonio Jones.”

  “Fair enough. I’m Sam Hunter.”

  “You’re a cop?”

  “Not anymore. Private investigator,” I said as we crossed the street. There were only two traffic lights in town and they both blinked yellow continually. Either they were trying for a Twin Peaks thing, or all small towns are creepy like that. Yellow means “caution,“ so I figured a subtext was implied. Besides, it was that kind of a day.

  Antonio said, “Working for the cops, though?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I saw you with Chief Crow and Iron Mike.”

  “‘Iron Mike?’”

  “That’s what people used to call him. In school, I mean. When he was little. Before the, um…”

  “Before the Trouble?”

  “Before that, yeah.”

  “Why? Was he always a body builder?”

  “Huh? Oh…no. Mike used to be in his head all the time. Always dreaming up stuff. One day he’d be a Jedi, the next he’d be Sheriff Rick. Or Conan. Whatever. He spent a lot of time like that. Playing by himself. Daydreaming in school. Not sure if he started calling himself Iron Mike or the other kids did.”