by Mark Tufo
Casper rolled again, first away from the man and his duffle bag, then back toward his duffle and over it, grabbing it with his hand and scampering on all fours across the floor of his cabin and under his homemade bunk.
Chris Anthony chuckled to himself as he watched the little man crawl across the floor dragging his beat up gym bag. Yeah, he screwed up and missed gutting him like a fish because he liked to watch people’s eyes when they died and he missed the damned bag in his hands…but the idea of this guy hiding under his bed like a little kid? Hilarious.
Anthony stepped heavily and maliciously toward the bunk and reached down to flip it over and out of his way in a theatrical fashion, only to find that it had been bolted to the floor. He tugged a second time and heard the lag bolts strain against the aged wood. He sighed and shook his head. Tilting his head, he tried to peer under the bed to see where Wineguard was hiding, but he had crawled too far back under the thing to be seen.
“Come out from there, insect. If you make me come down there after you, I’m going to make this a lot more painful.”
Chris held his breath and listened, but he couldn’t even hear the man breathing. He instantly dropped to his knees and looked under the bed. He swatted away boxes and loose trash to find the area…empty. He sat up on his knees and peered around the gloomy cabin. How in the hell?
He crawled under the low bed, his oversized frame barely squeezing under the wooden structure. When he finally reached the back wall, he found a trap door in the floor. The little bastard had given him the slip. Chris started shimmying out from under the bed, exhaling hard to get his massive chest out from under the wooden frame.
He almost panicked when the tactical vest he wore under the Army jacket snagged on the edge of the bed, pinning him, and he found himself stuck. He reached under the jacket and ripped the Velcro tabs to free himself, then began backing out when he heard the distinct stomping of someone running across the wood floor. He then felt someone fall onto his legs and the sting of his own knife bite into the backs of his legs repeatedly while Casper screamed.
Anthony exploded in a rage of adrenaline and nearly ripped the lag bolts from the floor as he came up from the floor in a rage. Casper had crawled under the cabin and emerged only to attack him with his own knife, sinking the blade to the hilt numerous times in his legs then burying it into his back before turning and bolting out the door. Chris tried to reach for the knife, but he couldn’t get a hand on it. He could barely touch one side with his fingers and found that just touching the blade sent spasms of excruciating pain shooting up and down the side of his back.
He staggered to the side of the cabin, feeling his blood running down his legs and filling his combat boots. He leaned against the door jamb and saw Casper’s frail body running like mad through the woods toward the edge of the wooded hill.
Chris leaned against the jamb and slid until the knife made contact with the wood. Reaching back with his arm and pressing his fingers as tightly as he could against the blade, he leaned forward pulling the blade from this back then fell to his knees, the knife thunking to the wooden porch between his feet. He sat silent a moment trying desperately not to throw up.
Finally, he found the strength to stand and pulled the tactical vest the rest of the way off his body. He used the knife to cut up the Army surplus jacket and made makeshift bandages to try to stem the flow of blood from his legs and back. He looked up the trail to where he had left his only form of transportation and wondered if he stood half a chance of making it or if he would bleed to death up on this hill and be fodder for the coyotes.
With what little strength he had left, Chris bent over and retrieved his knife then turned and headed for his base camp. His ride wasn’t that far off, but it was far enough away that he seriously wondered if he could make it before he bled out. Then he questioned if he could will himself to make it to town before giving up the ghost. He had one friend that could maybe patch him up without utilizing emergency services. But he’d have to do it in person. The guy was even more paranoid than he was and didn’t believe in things like telephones or radios or even television. They were all ways for the government to track you, according to him.
Chris staggered to his camp and withdrew a bottle of water. He chugged it down, knowing that keeping his fluids up right now was vital. He grabbed another bottle and continued on his way. He had a little further to go and already his head was throbbing, his feet were floating in his own blood and he could feel his extremities stiffening.
He finally reached the small clearing and pulled the brush away from the four-wheeler he had used to get up here. He straddled the machine and turned the key, then pressed the button bringing the quiet engine to life. He started slowly down the road and flipped the light on. He knew that right now, his biggest enemy was time. He actually welcomed the pain that he was in because that meant that he was still alive.
Going as quick as his dulling wits allowed, he made his way down the twisting, wooded road and to the county road leading back to town. Once he was on a straighter path, he kicked the sport utility into higher gear and opened it up, feeling weaker with each beat of his heart.
He knew he still had a pretty good trip ahead of him, but another fear seized him as he turned a corner and headed down another county road.
“Come on, Bobby. Be home…”
*****
Eckerson finally sat back down at the table and noticed that Ben had fallen asleep in the corner. He glanced at Jon who shrugged. “He looked so peaceful,” Foo said quietly. “Besides, if we leave him here like that, he has to get the check.”
Jeff opened his notebook. “Okay, so they really are Psychologists. I called UCLA and talked to their department. Some kid answered, said he was a Dr. Calvin Whynot’s TA.”
“Huh?” Jon leaned forward. “What’s a why not? And a TA?”
Jeff nodded. “Yeah, that’s his name. Whynot, one word. TA is a teaching assistant.” Jeff flipped through the pages of his notebook. “Anyway, this Whynot is working on his third PhD, this one is in parapsychology, and before you ask, that’s the study of ghosts and shit like that. Things that go bump-in-the-night kind of stuff.”
“No shit?” Jon asked incredulously.
“Serious as a heart attack. This guy and his two other assistants travel all over the place like Ghost Busters and investigate this stuff.”
Jon sat back and gave him a questioning look. “So…if they’re for real, do you think they actually found anything?”
Jeff shook his head. “I don’t know. But according to the TA guy, they have all sorts of high-tech equipment that they drag with them. They dig up all sorts of stuff.”
“How’d you get this guy to tell you all this?”
“I just told him I was a deputy with the Wood County Sheriff’s Office and that they,” he indicated the group in the corner, “offered their assistance. I wanted to call and check them out, make sure their story was real, et cetera, before I divulged any confidential information.”
Jon smiled. “You dog, you lied.”
Eckerson shot back a puzzled look. “No I didn’t. That red haired girl offered to help…so technically, part of the group offered their assistance. And before I’d share anything with anybody outside our department, I’d call and check them out.”
Jon shook his head. “Bullshit.”
“No bullshit.”
“Yes, bullshit,” he countered.
“No, I always check people out before…”
“You didn’t call on Sanders.” Jon smiled at him.
Eckerson’s face fell. “She’s a Ranger.”
“How do you know?” Jon shrugged. “You can buy a badge just about anywhere these days.” He raised a brow. “And she didn’t come here to ‘take over the case’, remember. She just came to assist?”
Jeff sat back and raised a brow at Jon. When he scooted out of the seat again Jon looked at him strangely and shook his head. “Where you going now?”
“To make anoth
er call.”
*****
Justin pulled the cruiser back into the sheriff’s office and shut off the ignition. He sat for a moment and rubbed at his eyes. “Tired?” Sanders asked, already knowing the answer.
Zimmer snorted and replied, “I’m bushed.” He opened the car door and stepped out, Sanders following him to the building. “Aren’t you feeling it yet?”
“I always feel it. I just go back to my hotel room and mainline coffee.”
“If I thought for a moment it would work…” He opened the door and held it for her. As the two walked in, he nodded to Amber. “Anything new I need to know?” he asked, not expecting an answer.
“Actually, yes. I found something. Something that might be important.”
Justin suddenly felt more alert. He turned to Sanders. “Care to pour us both a cup while I catch up with Deputy Meeks?”
Sanders gave him a thumbs-up and headed to the coffee mess. Justin came around the corner of the counter and looked over her shoulder. Amber glanced around before pulling out a file she had created.
“I finally figured out Judge Carter’s password and was able to unseal those kids’ records.” She flipped the file open and pulled out two sheets of paper, handing them both to him. Justin scanned them both and felt his blood run cold. “I double checked,” she said quietly before he could ask.
“Have you told anybody else yet?”
She shook her head slowly. “How do you tell someone that they might be a target based on something like this?”
Justin leaned against the counter and stared off into space. He shook his head. “I don’t know.” He flicked the paper between his fingers and looked up to see Sanders approaching. He accepted the cup of coffee and handed her the sheets. “The sealed records on the kids that were killed.”
She scanned the records and nodded. “Okay. What does this mean?”
“It means that the girl, Beth Ann, was the biological daughter of George Hollis. One of our earlier victims,” Justin explained. “That ties her to the others.” He reached over and pointed at the boy’s information. “The mother died in childbirth. She was a nobody anyway, but look at who she claimed the father was. He isn’t on the list of previous victims. That means he could be next, or on some kind of hit list or…” he trailed off.
“Okay, so we warn him that he may be in danger,” she said, shrugging.
Justin smiled a tight smile and shook his head. “You don’t understand. This guy? He isn’t just some schmuck on the street. He’s a very wealthy and powerful asshole in this neck of the woods. He owns a huge ranch, has his fingers in oil, manufacturing, a half dozen businesses…you don’t just roll up and say, ‘your life may be in danger, come with me’. Guys like him will have our badge.”
Sanders nodded. “Fine. If he’s such an ass, let him get what he has coming.”
Justin shot her an accusatory look. “Really? Like Scott wouldn’t flip shit over something like that.”
“Then what do you suggest? Either we try to tell him and offer him some kind of protection, or we don’t.”
Justin sipped the coffee and thought. “I think the least we can do is bring him in for questioning. Maybe he’s seen some strange people hanging around or something.”
Sheryn hiked a brow at him and fought a grin. “Strange people? Okay. We’ll run with that.”
“Amber, call Scott and fill him in on what you found. Tell him I’m heading out to the Miller ranch to bring in Jerrod Miller for questioning.” Justin set the coffee down and headed for the door. “He may want to be here when we get back.”
“Roger that, junior boss.” Amber reached for the phone.
“You coming?” he asked as he headed for the door.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Sanders said, following him out.
*****
Roger had pulled his old beater truck into the Gas-N-Go and pumped ten dollars’ worth into the tank. It still pissed him off that ten dollars’ worth of gas didn’t fill it up anymore. He hated to sound like his old man who used to always start off his drunken stories with “Back in my day…” Those stories used to make Roger roll his eyes back in his head and want to scream. Nobody gave two shits about how bad things were back in his day. Nobody cared how much things had changed. But now, here he stood, pumping the gas into the truck and thinking, back in my day, ten dollars’ worth of gas would drive your sorry ass all over the county and still get you to work the next day. He clicked off the pump and squeezed the handle again, venting the pressure off the hose and trying to squeeze the last couple of drops that he could from the pump.
He shook the nozzle off as if he had just taken a piss and even hopped up and down a little trying to shake the last drop from the tip of the metal phallus. Hanging it back on the pump he swaggered into the convenience store and slid a stick of jerky out of the tall plastic tube next to the register. He tossed it on the counter as he passed by and headed to the cooler. He pulled out a twelve pack of the cheapest beer he could find and took it back up to the cashier who was ignoring him on purpose. She rang up his purchases and he slipped her a twenty and a brown toothed smile. The little blonde popped her gum as she counted out his change and dropped it into his hand, trying hard not to actually touch his flesh.
He smiled at her again and licked his lips as he turned to go. She fought back the urge to gag as the smell of his body odor lingered. He kicked open the door of the Gas-N-Go and swaggered back out to his truck. He set the box of beer next to him in the truck and ripped open a corner of the box, fishing a cold one out and setting it between his legs. He popped the top, then turned the key on the truck, listening to it crank and backfire, sending a plume of smoke wafting across the parking lot.
Pulling out of the station, he lifted the beer to his lips and felt the chill burn of the carbonated liquid as it slid down his throat. He sucked on the can hard, pulling as much down as quickly as he could, crushing the can as he swallowed. As the last of the beer passed his lips, he finished crushing the can and tossed it over his shoulder into the back of his truck. He glanced both ways down the street and belched loudly with satisfaction.
He opted to go to the old trailer he lived in rather than drive the back roads. There was a fat redhead three trailers down that would surrender the pink whenever he was in the mood, and he was feeling a bit randy tonight. He turned left and headed toward the rundown trailer park where his beat up Airstream sat. He hadn’t gotten far when he saw a skinny man, running like the devil himself was chasing him, cross the road and run through the brush on the other side. Roger hit the brakes and stared into the brush in the direction the man went. “I’ll be damned if that didn’t look like Cas…”
Roger pulled the truck up further and continued down the road, cutting off to the right and taking the dusty, pothole filled road into the park. He drove slowly past the other trailers and smiled when he saw the light on at the redhead’s place. He rubbed at his crotch and nodded. “A few more brewskies and you’ll be almost purdy.” He pulled another beer from the box and held it up in toast to the redhead.
He pulled his truck up to his trailer and saw the front door standing open, still swinging on the hinges. “Son of a bitch!” He threw the truck into park and turned it off. He jumped out of the truck and slammed the door hard, stomping toward the trailer ready to beat somebody’s ass.
“You better be ready to get your dick slammed in a door, cuz I don’t cotton to muthafuc…”
“Roger!” Casper yelled, cutting him off. “You gotta hide me.”
Roger stood in the darkness and stared at his skinny friend standing in the doorway of his trailer, his anger steadily growing. “What the fuck, Casper?”
“Somebody tried to kill me, Rog.” Casper cried, his voice trembling, his breath coming in pants. “Right after you left, they attacked me and tried to kill me.”
Roger cocked his head, staring at him, unconvinced. If anybody attacked Casper and wanted him dead, he’d be dead. Casper couldn’t fight his way out
of a wet paper sack. “How the hell did you get away?”
“I ran, Rog. I ran like hell.” Casper stepped out of the doorway slightly and for the first time, Roger noticed that the front of Casper’s shirt was covered in blood.
“Fuck me…” He quickly looked around and pushed Casper into the trailer. “Who was it?”
“I don’t know, Rog. I couldn’t see his face. But he was a big bastard. And strong too.”
Roger pushed him to the back of the trailer and flipped on the light. “Sweet, Jesus, Cas, you’re covered in blood. Was you shot?”
“No, he missed me, but he had a knife. He was gonna stick me, Rog!” He was shaking like a leaf, the adrenaline pumping through him harder than any drug ever had.
“What happened?” Roger pulled at him and inspecting his best friend. Other than scratches from tree limbs and briars, he appeared intact.
“The bastard just walked into my cabin and pulled this knife. I dove under my bunk and went through my spider hole. I came out from under the cabin and when he went under the bed to get me, he got stuck. So I got him, Rog! I got him with his own knife. I stabbed that fucker in his legs and in his back and…and then…then I ran, Rog! I ran like hell!”
“Okay, okay…calm down. You’re sure you didn’t recognize him?”
“He had a mask. He came at me and stuck his knife right in my duffel bag and…”
“Why’d he stab your duffel bag?” Roger’s face twisted in confusion.
Casper stared at him unable to think of why he’d have his duffel in his hands. “I dunno, Rog. It was the closest thing to me and I just grabbed it. It had dirty laundry in it and I was going to hit him it, but he stabbed at me first and…Jesus, Rog, it just happened so fast.”
“Okay, okay. Calm down.” Roger paced as much as the confined space would allow. “Sit down a minute so we can think this out.”