by Ripley, Ron
“What happened?” Tom asked.
Israel hesitated then answered, “Well, to be honest, it looks as if something ate most of her.”
Tom’s stomach churned. “Hold on, Israel, will you?”
“Sure thing,” Israel answered and pulled the truck up onto the opposite side of the road, putting it in park.
Janet looked over at Tom, and he held up a finger, turning away to key the radio on his shoulder. “Dispatch this is Four.”
“Go ahead, Four,” Marty said from the station.
“We’ve got a possible homicide up on Samuel Road, the Danbury farm.”
There was a pause and then Marty said, “A homicide at the Danbury farm.”
“Correct.”
“Location?”
“I’m on Old Route 4,” Tom answered. “I’ve got a man who’s possibly lost in the forest. I’m speaking with his friend right now.”
“Copy that,” Marty said. “I’ll send Three over there now and call the Staties in. You need help with the forest?”
“Probably,” Tom answered, “but I think we’ll have to wait until sunrise on this one. By the time we get a crew together, it’ll be dark.”
“Okay,” Marty said. “I’ll put the word out, though, for everyone to be ready. I’ll call Holt, too. They’ve got the ATV club tonight. He can ask for volunteers.”
“Good,” Tom said. “I’ll call back soon. Four out.”
Tom put the radio back.
“Janet?”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to talk with that gentleman for a minute,” Tom said, pointing over to Israel’s truck. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
Tom waited for a car with Vermont plates to slowly drive by, and then he crossed the road to speak to Israel again. The old farmer watched him and nodded when Tom stopped at the driver’s side door.
“What’s going on?” Israel asked, absently scratching the German shepherd between the ears.
“Well,” Tom said, “I’ve got someone going up to the Danburys place, and I’ve still got this guy in there.”
“What did he go in for?” Israel asked.
“The woman says that they did a flyover yesterday, looking at what the storm did, and they spotted a house.”
“A house?”
Tom nodded.
The old farmer looked thoughtful for a moment, and then his eyes widened.
“They didn’t see a house,” he said softly.
“No?” Tom asked.
Israel shook his head. “No. They saw a hunting lodge.”
“So there is something in there?”
“Oh, yes,” Israel nodded. “An old hunting lodge. My father said that it was closed off in 1906, the old road to it barred.”
“Why?” Tom asked.
“A lot of deaths there,” Israel said. “A lot of deaths. No one knows for sure how many because a lot of the logging folk were just passing through from one camp to the other. But when they came up missing, and someone mentioned that they were moving through Enfield on up, well, people started looking.
“Someone, my father said, mentioned the hunting lodge. Teddy Roosevelt had used it to entertain the Japanese after he brokered that treaty between them and the Russians in 1905.” Israel shook his head. “Folks said that the Japanese had left something there that was killing people.
“No one knew for certain, of course. But that lodge stank of death, my father said. You could smell it. That sharp, bitter taste of hot blood on the tongue. They closed off the road, kept an eye on it for years until the trees grew in enough to stop any but a native from seeing it.”
“So he went to go look at a haunted lodge?” Tom asked. As silly as it sounded, he didn’t smile. The stranger was lost in there, somewhere.
“I suppose it is haunted,” Israel said, “but I’m not sure by what.”
“Well,” Tom said, looking at Turk, “you think that dog could try and sniff the man out?”
“We can try,” Israel said. “Worst case scenario, he’ll keep us company.”
Tom nodded. “Yes, there is that.”
***
Ka-Riu lay on the floor of the Lodge, listening to the curious sounds the thing made while it rested. Idly he swatted at the jawbone of the man he had found in the Lodge and grinned, licking his lips.
Ka-Riu missed the peace and quiet of Edo and wondered if he might ever see his home again. If not, he would be saddened, but here at least the food was plentiful.
And so deliciously rich that he purred simply thinking about it.
Sighing happily he extended his neck, picked up the jawbone with his mouth and chewed the bone and teeth contently while the sun neared the horizon, the sky steadily darkening.
***
Tom walked abreast of Israel, Turk slightly ahead of them on a long leash. They followed an unnaturally clear path of destruction which had started a short distance in from the road. The dog seemed to be trailing someone or something, lifting his snout up occasionally to smell the air.
The two men walked in silence, and Tom, who had never drawn his pistol in seventeen years of police work, was feeling the need to hold it in his hand.
That bothered him greatly.
Above them, the sun continued its all too rapid descent.
Soon, though, they caught sight of the stone walls of the hunting lodge and once more Tom felt an unexpected chill settle into his stomach. Tom glanced over at the old farmer, and Israel’s expression hadn’t changed at all. He might as well have been walking in his own barnyard from what Tom could see.
Turk reacted, though.
A low, guttural growl erupted from his throat, and the dog’s hackles clearly stood up as he pulled against the leash.
“Easy, boy, easy,” Israel said softly.
The closer they got to the lodge, the more details jumped out at Tom. The roof was in surprisingly good shape, especially since it was made of wooden shingles. How it had remained intact after a hundred years in the New England weather without treatment was amazing. The shutters were thrown wide on the windows, and the glass shone brightly, no sign of spider webs or wind etchings. The lodge’s heavy looking wooden door was painted a deep maroon and looked strong enough to last another century.
Thankfully, Israel brought the dog up short about twenty paces from the door.
“Does this look right to you?” the old farmer asked softly. Turk sat on his haunches, still growling.
Tom looked at the lodge again.
“No,” he said after a minute. “How can it look like this after a hundred years?”
“I don’t know,” Israel said, “but it’s wrong. It’s all wrong.”
Tom’s radio squawked suddenly, and both men jumped, Turk snapping at the air.
With his heart racing from the scare, Tom answered the radio. “This is Four.”
“Tom, it’s Steve,” Steve Militello said.
“Steve,” Tom said, “I thought they had you down in Concord.”
“I was,” Steve replied. “Got promoted and they moved me to the Concord barracks. Hey, I’m over at the Danbury farm, Tom. Marty says that you called it in.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t see this, did you?” Steve asked.
“No,” Tom answered. “Local man did.”
“He said the woman looked eaten, right?”
“Yeah,” Tom answered. “Was he right?”
“Jesus, Tom,” Steve sighed into the radio, “he was right. Hell, we don’t even know what ate her. I’ve never seen bite marks like this. We’re waiting for a specialist from UNH to get down here, but this is a mess. And no sign of the husband?”
Tom looked over to Israel, and the man shook his head. “No, Steve, no sign of the husband.”
“Okay,” Steve sighed again. “Okay. Where are you now?”
“Off of Old Route 4,” Tom answered him. “I’m looking for a guy who went for a walk and didn’t come out.”
“Tourist?”
�
�No,” Tom said. “They’re locals, far as I can tell.”
“Okay,” Steve said. “Let me know if you find him or not, alright?”
“Yup.”
“Okay.”
Unprofessional, Tom knew as he put his radio back, but that really didn’t matter right now. Not in the least. What mattered was the lodge.
“You’ve got the gun,” Israel said after a moment. “Feel like making sure nothing runs at me when I open the door?”
“I can open the door, Israel.”
“I know,” Israel nodded. “You seem pretty capable in general. That’s why I’d like to have you with the gun out.”
Tom almost told Israel that there was no need for his weapon to be drawn, but then he felt that sick fear in his stomach. Nodding, he drew his weapon, slid the safety off and waited as the old farmer walked up to the door, Turk eagerly walking alongside the man, the dog ready to launch itself forward.
Tom held his pistol in two hands, his finger on the side the trigger guard, and watched as Israel opened the door.
***
Ka-Riu hid in the shadows of the roof, lying on a beam and watching the old farmer walk in with a dog. The dog smelled familiar, and Ka-Riu smiled to himself.
The dog from the other farm.
The dog stopped in the center of the room and looked around, sinking low and growling.
Ka-Riu’s smile widened.
***
Israel had known fear in his life. More than once. He’d spent thirteen terrible months in Vietnam, and when Israel stepped through the Lodge’s door, he felt that same fear. A gut-wrenching, ball-crushing fear that made him want to back out and find a good place to hide.
Just like in Vietnam, though, Israel went forward.
Turk dropped low onto the wide plank floor, the dog’s growl getting deeper and harsher.
And Israel could see why.
Five skulls stood side by side on a table. They were missing their lower jaws and looked cheerfully, it seemed, at Israel. The Lodge stank of death and of rotting meat. A pair of backpacks, with sleeping bags strapped to the tops of them, stood in the corner to the left of the door.
Israel tugged gently on the dog’s leash.
“Come on, Turk,” he in a soft voice.
Turk came back readily, never taking his eyes away from the room. Israel didn’t either, backing out of the Lodge and closing the door.
With the door closed he turned and walked back to Officer Henderson, who kept his pistol trained on the Lodge.
“Was he in there?” the officer asked.
Israel looked at him. “He might be, but I can’t be sure.”
The officer looked at him, confused. “What do you mean?”
“There are five skulls in there,” Israel said, “and they’re all fresh.”
The officer lowered the pistol and swore softly.
“Ayuh.”
“Okay,” the officer said, holstering his pistol, “let’s get back to the road, so I can figure this out.”
“No argument from me, son,” Israel said, and he gave Turk the lead, the three of them quickly making their way back to Old Route 4.
Chapter Seven
Ellen Shaw
The clock on the mantle struck nine, and Ellen Shaw pulled another sheet of cookies out of the stove, sliding it onto the top burners before putting the next sheet in. She had the classical music station out of Portsmouth on the radio, and she hummed along to a piece by Schubert as she used a well-used spatula to get the baked chocolate cookies off of the sheet and onto a cooling rack.
David would never approve of her baking at such a late hour, but there wasn’t much for her to do when he was away on business. Ellen liked that, not having much to do. She didn’t cook big meals when he was gone, and she entertained herself with baking and PBS programming during the evenings. Over the years, she had grown used to David being away two weeks a month, sometimes even three.
She preferred it that way now. It was more difficult to have him around, expecting her to cook and to clean his clothes and to make conversation with him.
If he wanted those things, she thought to herself, then he shouldn’t have forced her to make do without him. At times, she feared his retirement, wondering what it would be like to be with David constantly, not just before work or after it, or on those rare weekends when he wasn’t golfing.
With him all of the time.
The thought made her shudder with unease, and she forced herself to focus on the cookies in the oven. She bent over, looking through the glass of the oven door and smiling at the way the cookies were baking.
From the front yard, a cat yowled suddenly, and Ellen straightened up.
A moment later, the yowling came from the back door, and she hurried to it. She unlocked the door and pulled it open, opening the screen door too, to let Mr. Meow, her orange tabby, come racing in.
Anger flared up in her.
The cat only ran like that when the Johnsons’ wretched teenage son was throwing rocks at him.
Forgetting all about the cookies, Ellen hurried to the front door and opened it, stepping out onto the front steps, and. . .
Ellen froze in place.
The Johnsons’ teenage son, Jason, was there all right. Just not the way that Ellen would have pictured him.
The boy was unconscious, if not outright dead, and was being dragged across her front yard by a red, oriental dragon. The dragon looked over at her, unmistakable mirth in its eyes.
Good evening, the dragon said, speaking directly into her mind.
Ellen staggered back from the force of the voice, but caught hold of the doorjamb and steadied herself.
This little thing doesn’t like cats, the dragon continued. In fact, he doesn’t like animals much at all. I was hoping for something a little larger to eat this evening, but, the dragon laughed, I’ll make do with this for now.
The boy whimpered and the dragon gave him a good shake, silencing the teenager. The dragon’s laugh echoed in Ellen’s mind once more.
Even I like cats, the dragon chuckled, and Ellen watched as the dragon dragged the limp teenager into the night’s darkness.
Chapter Eight
Eric Johnson
Eric Johnson finished with his prayers, crossed himself, and got up off of his knees. He put his glasses back on and turned the lights up in his small den. From upstairs, he heard Jason’s ungodly music coming from the boy’s bedroom.
Eric couldn’t stand his son’s taste in music. Or his taste in clothes. Or his proud declaration of atheism, which Eric desperately hoped was simply a rebellious phase that the boy was going through. The thought of the boy in purgatory for the rest of eternity shook Eric to his core.
Life had been difficult for them both when Anne had passed away two years earlier, but while the boy was recently motherless Eric didn’t abandon him. Eric didn’t slip into the depthless pool of his own grief, nor did he suddenly become overbearing and overprotective of his outgoing, rambunctious son. It was true that Jason lashed out, becoming far more difficult than he had been prior to Anne’s death.
As a father, and as a man who had been orphaned at an age much younger than Jason, Eric understood what was going on.
But, it was time to reach out to the boy, see if he wanted to watch the rest of the Thursday night football game.
Sighing Eric went to the stairs and walked up them. The music got louder, and Eric braced himself for the onslaught of teen angst. Jason’s bedroom door was shut, of course, so Eric knocked on it, wondering if Jason had put the music on his speakers rather than listening to them through headphones simply to torture Eric.
It seemed likely.
Eric knocked again, a little harder and louder the second time.
No change in the music. It remained steady at the same volume. If Jason was ignoring him, he would have turned the volume up. If he wanted to speak with him, Jason would have turned the volume down.
Jason never let the volume remain the same.
/> Never.
Eric knocked harder on the door.
Still nothing.
Eric tried the doorknob and found that it was locked.
For the first time since Jason was ten, Eric reached up to the top of the doorframe, found the long finishing nail he had rested there, and took it down. He slid the nail into the hole of the doorknob heard the lock click and pulled the nail back out. Out of old habit, he put the nail back on the door frame. Then he grabbed hold of the cold brass doorknob and twisted it, pushing the door in.
Eric found the room empty.
The room was, per usual, in disarray. Clothes littered the floor. Jason’s guitar stood in a corner by the amplifier. Jason’s laptop was on, sitting atop the cluttered desk that Eric remembered assembling with Anne when Jason started first grade.
The window was open, and the emergency rope ladder—purchased to ensure that young Jason could get out of the house in the event of a fire—had been dropped out the window.
The fear that had welled up in him fled, anger replacing it. The boy didn’t have to sneak out. Jason knew that. He just wanted to be difficult about everything. Eric walked over the clothes to the window, pulled the rope ladder back up and into the house, slammed the window sash down, and locked it.
Jason would have to knock on the front door to get in. Especially after Eric went outside and took the spare key out from under the back plant pot.
Turning to leave the room Eric reached over to the laptop to turn the music off when he saw a messenger screen pop up.
“Where r u?” from Kitty99.
Kitty99.
Katherine, number 99 on girls’ field hockey team at the high school.
Katherine Lavoie, who lived two houses, over.
Jason could cut right through the Shaws’ backyard and get into Katherine’s house.
Smiling grimly, Eric turned off the music and left the room. He went back downstairs, pulled on his coat, and headed to the backdoor. Flipping on the back light, he opened the door and headed out into the chilly night. He cut across his neatly manicured lawn to the tall hedges that separated his yard from the Shaws’ yard. They’d become a necessity after he and Anne had caught Jason throwing rocks at the Shaws’ cat, Mr. Meow.