“It’s okay, Ms. Newman,” she said rubbing the woman’s frail shoulder as she sat at the small Formica table. By her side was an old schnauzer Ms. Newman called Walter. She’d told Kathy the story about brunch three times already.
“Oh, Conway,” she cried.
Kathy grabbed her some tissues from the Kleenex box atop the island in the center of the room. Outside the window, she saw Rutherford’s cruiser pull up behind her own.
“Ms. Newman, I need to go speak with my fellow deputy. Are you going to be okay here for a bit?”
The little gray-haired woman nodded as she dotted her eyes with the folded-up tissue. She clutched Kathy’s forearm, “Please, please don’t…. don’t leave him out there like that.”
Bruce Davison was on his way over, he’d do his thing and have the body cleaned up by morning. She went to tell the old woman this, but ended up saying, “We won’t, Ms. Newman. I promise.”
“Thank you, dear,” Ms. Newman said.
Kathy met Rutherford at his car.
“So, what’s the big deal?” he said.
“Follow me,” she said. The scene would speak volumes over anything she could explain.
She got in the car and drove the hundred feet or so down the road to the Yates place. She pulled in and stopped. Rutherford’s car was followed by the familiar shape of Bruce Davison’s Suburban.
Good, she’d only have to go through this once.
“Jeeeesus,” Bruce said. “Jesus. H Christ, Kathy, what in the hell are we lookin’ at?”
“This is Conway Yates. I can’t tell you who or what did this, but I think it’s safe to say we have something hanging around our town and it ain’t friendly.”
“Fuck it,” Rutherford said, “I can grab Jesse Harper and Barry Smith. We’ll head out there and find the thing that done this…we’ll find it and put it down.”
“I don’t think so,” Kathy said. “Not until we have a better idea what’s caus—”
“Fuck you, Kathy, pardon my fuckin’ french, but if there’s an animal out there threatening my town, I’ll kill the fucking thing and hang its guts out to dry.”
“Bruce, can you get to work?” Kathy said. She stalked over to Rutherford as Bruce returned to his truck. “As for you, Kenny. You wanna talk to me like that again in front of people,” she pulled her pistol and placed it between Rutherford’s legs, “and I’ll shoot your fucking balls off.”
Rutherford’s clenched jaw weakened, his eyes widened.
“We clear?” she said.
“Yeah, fuck, yeah, clear. Now get that thing off me.”
She holstered her weapon and glared at him. “Now, get over there and help Bruce. I want this cleared up before we get any more company. I’m going to check out the house. You all right with that?”
He nodded.
“Good.”
Bruce appeared donning a pair of light blue rubber gloves and a camera strapped around his neck.
“Kenny’s going to give you a hand. I’m gonna have a look around. Keep your eyes open, whatever did this could still be here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bruce said, and he smacked Rutherford’s arm. “Come on, Big Kenny, let’s get to it.”
Kathy left the two men behind, pulled out her flashlight, and walked to where the legs and Yates’s hind side lay. She’d never seen this level of carnage outside of a car crash. She did her best to ignore that rotten stench coming off the body. She continued toward the porch and found one of the man’s slippers. Shining the light upon it, she saw blood crusted across the top of the light brown material. Continuing up the steps, she saw the rail and a chunk of the porch were obliterated. Splotches of dried blood stained the area. She turned and gazed out at the yard. The moon set against the black sky cast plenty of light. It was beautiful.
“What were you doing out here,” she whispered. “What did you see?”
The flash from Bruce’s digital camera sparked to life. Kathy moved inside. The door wasn’t locked and the lights were still on. An old seventies-looking yellow sofa, ugly as hell, sat against the wall on the west side of the room. Stacks of paperbacks were piled up on either side of it. She picked a couple up. Gord Rollo, Edward Lee, Stephen King… She recognized King, but not the others. The titles and covers were dreadful. Crimson, Golem, Evil Infernal…Yates apparently had a love for horror. She set the books on the couch and went to the kitchen. There were a couple of dirty plates and a frying pan, empty beer cans, and not much else. Yates lived alone and lived a simple life. Nothing wrong with that, she thought.
After a quick walk-through of the rest of the place, Kathy stepped outside to check the progress.
“What do we have?” she asked Bruce.
Bruce pushed his glasses up his nose and placed his hands on his hips. “Well, I don’t know what kind of animal does something quite like this? I mean, I’d say a grizzly has it in ‘em, but to tear a person apart like this? Not even the most protective mother bear’s gonna do this.”
“You mind if I toss out something crazy,” she said.
“Shoot.”
“The Cutter kid…he mentioned a local legend.”
“The white wolf,” Bruce said, bowing his head, not looking at her.
“I know, it sounds—”
“Convenient,” he said. He shook his head. “Now, deputy, I’ve lived in this town goin’ on thirty years. I’ve heard that nonsense plenty, ’Cept there ain’t never been anything to validate none of it.”
“Maybe not until now,” she said.
“Come on, Kathy. You really believe such a thing can exist? I mean, we’re talking about a werewolf.”
“It’s crazy, but until we narrow it down, until we know what we’re up against here, I don’t want to write anything off.”
“Even that?” Bruce said.
“Just see if you can figure it out,” she said. “I’m depending on you to take the nonsense option off the table.” She patted his back and went to Rutherford.
“I’m heading back, you stay out here with Bruce. I don’t want anyone left alone until we get a grip on this. Got it?”
“Yeah,” Rutherford said, not quite the cocky asshole he usually was. He looked different. He looked nervous. “You plan on callin’ the sheriff?”
“When I’m ready,” she said. “Stay alert, and call me if you need me.”
She got in her car, turned it around, and thought about the way she’d taken Rutherford down a notch. Sheriff would probably tell her it was out of line, but she bet he’d also be proud as hell. He constantly told her to stand her ground and not to take any shit from Rutherford. Only way to get respect was to earn it.
She’d hoped for a chance to make her mark in the sheriff’s absence this weekend. Staring down the full moon, this wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Wendy picked up her phone on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hi, Wendy. It’s Jane Clukey, Paul’s mother?”
She knew who it was, yet the woman acted like they’d never met every time they spoke.
“Hi, Ms. Clukey. What can I do for you?”
“Well, it’s about Paul.”
Wasps suddenly launched in her stomach.
“Is he okay?” she said.
“Well, I hope so. He hasn’t returned home. I know you two hang out together quite often. Have you seen him tonight?”
She thought about his confession. His anger. She saw his taillights burning red and fading away as he ditched her in the woods.
“Yes, well, he gave me a ride earlier this afternoon, but he… he dropped me off and I haven’t seen or heard from him since. He never came back home?”
“No. I’m…I’m sure he’s just out, but I can’t seem to reach him on his cell. Do you mind telling me where the two of you went?”
“He…dropped me off on the old outlet road. There’s a cabin out there where my brother and our friends hang out.”
“Way out there? Why in the Heavens would you bo
ther going out there?”
“I don’t know. We just always have since we were kids.”
“Well, are you home now?”
“Yes.”
“And how did you manage that? Have you heard from Paul?”
“No, my brother and one of our friends picked me up. I haven’t seen Paul since he left the cabin.” Now she was concerned.
What if he did come back for me?
The thought was dreadful.
What if he went back and it was there?
“Well, if you do hear from him, can you have him call home?” Ms. Clukey asked.
“I will. Definitely.”
After Ms. Clukey ended the call, Wendy tried Paul’s cell and got his voicemail.
She went down the hall to Johnny’s room. “Hey,” she said, ducking her head in.
“What’s up?”
“Where’s Bryan?” she asked.
“Home, why?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing, but I’m a little worried about Paul.”
“Why?”
“His mother just called and said he never came home and he’s not answering his phone.”
“So.”
“So, what if… what if he felt bad for ditching me and went back out?”
She watched as Johnny realized what she was getting at. “Bryan’s probably getting reamed out for his truck.” Johnny stood and grabbed a sweatshirt from the back of his door. “Come on,” he said, walking past her.
She followed him down the hall. “How will we get there?”
He grabbed a set of keys for his work van.
Johnny went to the closet and came out with their dad’s old rifle and a box of bullets.
“You’re driving,” he said. “I’ll be the firepower. I just hope to hell we don’t need it.”
She caught the keys as he tossed them to her. “And try not to hit anything. My boss will fire my ass.”
They headed out to the cabin.
…..
Bryan stepped inside the darkened room, his movements like a sloth’s, slow and methodical. Chances were good that his father was already passed out. The old man’s Ford pick-up was parked in the driveway, and Bryan had checked the hood as he passed, found it was cold, so his father had been home for a while if not all night.
He placed his hands to the sheet rock wall and tiptoed his way into the kitchen. Navigating his way through the pitch black, Bryan felt the weight of his old man slide away. His fingers found the handle to the refrigerator, and he opened the door, the dull light from within leaking out and revealing the remains of his father’s case of Budweiser. The thirty-pack held four more cans.
Jesus.
Bryan reached in and pulled out two of the leftovers. His father never noticed when he’d drank so many. He placed one in each pocket of his sweatshirt, closed the door, and headed out of the room.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
His father’s deep voice froze the blood in his veins.
Shit.
Bryan couldn’t move. He couldn’t see his father, but knew where he was before the lighter flicked a cigarette to life in the corner of the room.
His only hope was that he’d had too many beers to stand, but he doubted that. His father could drink the entire 30-pack and still stalk around the house ready to dish out punishment. He wasn’t slurring his words yet, either. Another bad omen.
“I just got back from Lucy Monteith’s place. Me and Johnny were trying to get laid.”
The recliner creaked as the red cherry rose.
“Come over here,” his father growled.
He steeled himself for whatever the bear of a man might do next.
“Hand me one of them beers in your pocket.”
He handed the cold can over.
His father popped the top.
“Go on and open the other one,” his father said.
Bryan’s hand paused on the can in his other pocket, unsure of where this was going. He’d drank a beer with his father only once before. The afternoon his dad set him down to tell him if he was gonna be out fucking girls, he’d damn well better not knock any of them up, or he’d kill him. Such a loving father.
“I said open it, boy.”
Bryan slipped the beer from his sweatshirt and cracked it open.
“Drink up,” he said.
Bryan took two swallows, relishing the hops. He’d never been one of those kids, like Johnny even, that had to get used to the taste of beer. It was love at first gulp. A product of his father’s genes, he was sure. They always said kids of alcoholics were more likely to follow in their parent’s drunken footsteps.
“I hear right this afternoon?” his father’s tone was friendly enough, but there was an undertone of malice. The man excelled at luring you into his den of discipline, but this was a new tactic. Bryan’s wrought mind twisted between red alert and intrigue.
“What…what did you hear?” He took another sip of the beer.
“Don’t play with me, boy.”
He had no idea whether his father had heard about the damage to the truck or if he’d caught wind of the damn tickets his asshole buddy had written him. His old man wasn’t gonna say what he’d heard. This was one of his games. Bryan would have to confess. He sensed a beatdown was coming regardless. Only the confession held the possibility of a lesser thrashing.
“Last night, when me and Johnny and Wendy were by the outlet road, something huge came charging out of the woods and clawed the side of the truck. I don’t know what the hell it was, just that it was fucking big.”
“Mmm, hmmm.” Bryan heard his father take another sip in the dark. “What if that ain’t all I heard happened out that way?”
Bryan sighed and downed the rest of his beer. “Deputy Rutherford…he wrote me up for not having my seatbelt on. He’s a fucking asshole.” He regretted the words the second they past his lips.
“See, that’s one of the problems with you kids. Here,” his father handed him the cigarette. Bryan took it. The heat in his fingertips told him it was nearly down to the filter already. “Take a drag.”
He did.
He felt his head split open, like a thundercrack, as the near-full can of beer in his father’s hand crashed down against the left side of his head. The force sent him into the wall. His father grasped his sweatshirt. The beer can smacked into the back of his head again and again. Bryan’s thoughts swam away from the splitting in his cranium.
The world fell away as his father spun him around and smashed him across the bridge of the nose, beer splashing his eyelids and cheek. Bryan collapsed to the floor. His father poured the remainder of the beer on him before chucking the empty can off his shoulder.
Bryan listened as his father finally walked away. The refrigerator door opened. His father chugged another beer.
“See, you bring this shit on yourself, son. You come at me with these…these wild stories of big fucking animals damaging your truck? Call my friends assholes? Kenny’s an asshole because you can’t follow the fucking rules? Not in my world, boy. You…you’re the asshole. You got no respect, no matter how much I try to beat it into your dumb ass. You got no respect. Not for your things, not for yourself, and not for anyone else.
The light from the fridge spilled into the darkness again. Bryan’s eyes fluttered open to see his father take the last beer.
“Don’t you bleed on my rug either, boy. Think on what you done today and figure out just how in the hell you’re gonna pay to get that truck fixed and them tickets paid.”
Laying in the dark, blood coming from more than one spot of his face and head, Bryan cried. He couldn’t help it. His head felt like it’d been fractured, his nose was broken for sure. But none of it was the cause of his tears. Despite how many times he’d suffered his father’s rage, no matter how prepared he thought he was for the outcome of each confrontation, it hurt someplace deeper, someplace he didn’t let anyone into. He dreamed of escape, yet he could never truly imagine leaving. Hell, he was
nearly twenty-four. He should be on his own, he should be out from under his father’s thumb, but that stupid part of him longed for the old man’s approval.
Flashes of the two of them getting ice cream at Shep’s on his eighth birthday, or working on the shed together out back when he was twelve…he grasped at those moments and somehow, whether foolish or not, they tethered him to the notion that they could have a relationship… a normal relationship…
The tears spilled in the dark following him into unconsciousness.
…..
The digital clock in the work van read 12:41. Wendy would never forgive herself if anything happened to Paul. There was no way he would stay out this late. Even when he was hanging out at her house, he left at 11 p.m. like clockwork. For all the bitching and moaning he did about his parents not caring about him, he adhered to their rules like his life depended on it. Even as he attended college locally at Coral County Community, he kept his rigid schedule and routines that he’d followed since they met in elementary school.
She white-knuckled the steering wheel pushing the speed limit as they approached the outlet road.
“Hey, slow it down. I know you wanna get there, but that’s how Bryan and I got smacked by that turd, Rutherford.”
She knew he was right, but she could give two shits about Rutherford or any cop for that matter.
“Look, he ain’t gonna be out here, okay. I now you’re worried, but if he did come back, I’m sure he left…” Johnny’s voice died out as they reached the driveway. The van’s headlights reflected off something in the road.
There was a door, a car door in the center of the driveway.
“Oh, God, that’s the door to Paul’s car.”
“Just hold the hell on. We don’t know that.”
“Right, who the fuck else would be out here tonight, Johnny? Huh?”
He grabbed the rifle from the seat, switched off the safety, and opened the door. “Stay here. Keep the car running…just in case.”
“Wait, you shouldn’t—”
He slammed the door.
She watched him step into the headlights and approach the door. He held the gun to his shoulder, sweeping the barrel back and forth.
The Beast of Brenton Woods Page 6