by R. A. Evans
“Loud and clear, John.” Maddie’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Frank’s been,” a pause, “delayed.”
It was more in the way she said it than what she actually said that sounded so odd. Frank had once been “delayed” to a drunk and disorderly call in the parking lot at The Hayloft. It was opening day of firearm season and the story went that he had spotted a fourteen point buck running along the side of Country Road 22 just outside of town. Frank took it down from the driver’s seat with his service revolver, the steering wheel cradled between his knees. He pulled into The Hayloft an hour later with the monster tied with yellow caution tape across the hood of his cruiser. The once angry crowd erupted into cheers and high fives. They dispersed peacefully a short time later with most retreating back into the smoky confines of The Hayloft to toast the sharp shooting Deputy Frank Griggs.
John tossed the radio onto the seat next to him and flung open the driver’s door of the cruiser. A polite rain was falling, a fine but cold mist accompanied by a sharp breeze that brought with it the warning of a heavier storm in the very near future. He rounded the back of the car and briefly gazed up at the western sky where dark clouds gathered on the horizon. His hand moved instinctually to unbuckle the sidearm holster on his hip as he leaned into the wind and started down the driveway.
He was halfway down the driveway when he caught site sight of the footprints. They were small and red and seemed to double back and forth across themselves both entering and exiting the partially open door that led from the garage into the house. Deputy Tanner paused and drew his weapon. He briefly debated returning to the car for his radio, but at the site of the blood in the garage, Ken Reed’s words, “They’re dead…my babies are dead,” came pounding back into his head, leaving him shaking with fear as the reality of the situation swept over him. His sweaty grip tightened around the gun as he crept forward fearful of who had left those footprints, but convinced he would soon find out.
Deputy Frank Griggs pressed his face against the cruiser’s window and peered inside. The cold rain ran down his neck and back. “Shit,” he cursed as he stepped back and pulled the hood of his yellow slicker over his head. It was the fourth time he had bent down to look into the window, as if he somehow expected the keys would be magically removed from the ignition and safely in his hand instead. Finally, after resigning himself to the fact no magic key fairy was coming to his rescue, he crossed his arms across his barrel chest and leaned against the locked door of the cruiser, listening to the sound of John Fogerty’s raspy voice singing Credence Clearwater Revival’s Have You Ever Seen The Rain echo from the comfort of the dry interior of the car. Yeah, I’ve seen the fucking rain. He thought, letting the heat from the idling car warm his stiffening back.
Fortunately, he thought to himself, it had been only a half a mile walk to the nearest house. The old couple seemed quite understanding when he explained that he needed to use their phone. Police emergency, he had assured them. If only he had thought of a police emergency that involved asking to use their bathroom before he had decided to stop and take a leak on the side of the road; hindsight. If only he wouldn’t be standing out in the rain right now. He could only imagine what Johnny would say when he arrived.
He heard the siren long before the car came into view over the rise. The flashing reds and blues cut through the pouring rain as the cruiser sped towards him. Puzzled, Frank walked to the front of his car as he watched the lights draw closer. His heart fell as he saw the Sheriff Buck Tanner’s face tighten into a scowl behind the windshield wipers as the car rolled to a stop. “Fuck a duck,” he muttered as he shook the rain from his slicker and braced for the verbal barrage that was sure to come.
“Get your ass in here, Griggs,” the Sheriff yelled as he rolled the driver’s side window down. The deputy hesitated momentarily, “Now, Frank, there’s trouble!” The confused deputy sprinted to the passenger door and threw himself into the car. If he didn’t know better he would say the Sheriff was scared and that was something that just didn’t happen. His scowl had been replaced by a very pale and blank expression.
“Sheriff, let me explain,” Griggs began, lowering his hood and removing his cap. He ran a shaking hand through his slick hair and continued. “I’ve been in that car all day, sir and I knew I wouldn’t be able to make it all the way back to the station…”
He was interrupted by the crackle of the radio. “Sheriff, can you read me? Power’s out here in town and we’re running off the generator.” It was Maddie’s voice, and Griggs thought she sounded as nervous as the Sheriff looked.
The sheriff’s hand shot forward and grabbed the radio from its cradle on the dash. “Here, Maddie.” A pause and then glancing at his drenched passenger, “We’re right here.”
Maddie exhaled into the radio with obvious relief and then continued. “John’s on-scene, sir, he called in looking for Fra, I mean Deputy Griggs.”
“Well, get him on the horn and tell him we’re on our way,” the Sheriff ordered, glancing again at Griggs, who seemed to have shrunk at least six inches as he sank down into the seat trying to disappear into the upholstery. “I’ve been trying to reach him, but with this storm I think there’s some kind of interference.”
Silence, and then, “Sheriff,” another pause and then with a quivering voice Maddie said, “I’ve been trying for the past ten minutes and he’s not responding.”
Frank straightened in his seat. “What’s going on, sir? Where’s John?”
Sheriff Buck Tanner reached down and hung the radio back in its cradle as his foot pressed down even further on the accelerator. His eyes blazed from beneath the trademark Stetson hat atop his head but said nothing. They sped away, leaving Griggs’s still-running car along the side of the road. Griggs looked into his side view mirror and watched the cruiser disappear from sight.
He sat in silence waiting for an explanation and watched the speedometer out of the corner of his eye begin to bounce as it shot passed ninety and blew towards one 100 miles per hour. Trees and fields zipped by outside the rain streaked windows as they sped along the slick country roads back towards town.
They drove without speaking as if hypnotized by the scraping of the wipers across the windshield, keeping perfect time with the blaring siren overhead. Grip tightening on the steering wheel, Buck Tanner’s instincts turned from his responsibility as Sheriff to protect and serve the public, to those of a father trying to save his son.
Deputy John Tanner entered the garage and approached the open door. He carefully stepped over the bloody footprints, taking note of their relatively small size. He saw no obvious signs of a struggle, only what appeared to be an ordinary garage. An old riding mower was parked in the corner next to a giant snowmobile. The place was clean and orderly, except for the busy trail of bloody prints mapping paths to and from the house. They appeared to lead to the workbench.
Tools sprawled across its surface. The blood became visible as the deputy drew closer. He plucked a claw hammer from the bench and held it up in the light. Torn bits of flesh riddled with long dark hair clung to its claws and both the head and handle was slick with blood. As the realization of what he was looking at sunk in, the hammer slid from his hand landing and bouncing from the workbench with a thud. Revulsion overwhelmed him as he stumbled backward.
Trying to escape the sickening horror as he stumbled away, the young deputy failed to notice the small shadow creep up behind him. As John Tanner turned, however, he could feel the stab of something very sharp and cold bury itself into his chest. The pain dropped him to his knees, bringing him face-to-face with his attacker. The warm spread of blood flowed down his arm and over his hand. He attempted to raise his gun to ward off a second blow but instead felt it slide through his weakening grip.
As his world gave way to blackness, the deputy looked into the eyes of his small, blood soaked assailant. It was like looking into the bottom of an endless well of darkness. He felt small hands on his body, pulling and tugging, and then closed
his eyes.
The wail of an approaching siren gave Deputy Tanner hope, even as piercing flashes of pain about his face and chest tried to steal it away.