CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DICKEY HOUSE sat across the messy desk from Calypso. The fat man eyed House as a big cat surveys the weakest beast in the herd. Calypso now knew the pimp had sold his top payroll cop to Detective Bobby Macaulay. The only question was how to proceed.
“He beat it out of me,” Dickey said.
“That’s not the way it was told to me, Mon.”
“No, no, it’s true. Look at this scar.”
“You really should’ve gone in for stiches,” Calypso said. He looked over to Brain and another thick-necked man. “He’d look better for the funeral.”
Brain laughed. The second man did not respond.
“Shit, Mr. Calypso, sir. He gave me a helluva beating, I swear it.”
“That I don’t doubt,” Calypso said. “However I find it a bit implausible to believe that a man who intended to beat information from someone such as yourself would also be inclined to pay him.”
“But I…”
Calypso waved off his next words.
“What if I told you, Dickey House, that there existed a way in which you could make this deficiency we have between us go away?”
“Anything,” Dickey said. “I would do anything for you.”
“I want you to hurt Detective Macaulay. I want you to exact a measure of revenge for what he did to you.”
“Is that it?” Dickey said. “I’d do that for nothing.”
“You are doing it for nothing. Nothing but my good graces, that is.”
“I’ll get on this, sir. Right away I will.”
“No, no,” Calypso said. “Planning. Execution. These are concepts new to you, I’m sure. But there is a process here. And a method to the madness.”
“Sir?”
“My associates here will see that you are treated well. We will begin our plan this evening.”
Calypso nodded and the two large men lifted Dickey House up by the underside of his arms and carried him away to the back of the bar and down the steps to the cellar.
Amanda Byrne and I decided to grab a drink and an appetizer at Illegal Pete’s, on the 16th Street Promenade, not too far from Sweet Potatoes. The place was hopping, with a couple of local bands—Gatsby’s American Dream and Cobraconda—breathing life into an otherwise average downtown Friday night.
One top shelf margarita turned into several and the conversation—that had been pretty sparse all day—began to flow a bit.
“So you’re widowed?” Byrne said.
I was getting tipsy, but it was clear that Special Agent Amanda Byrne did not require any optical illusions. She was beautiful.
“I am,” I said. “My wife died several years ago.”
“I can’t imagine going through that, Bobby.”
I waved her off.
“I was forced to come to terms with it. We have to move on, you know? It’s in our DNA. And there are things worse than a loved one dying.”
“Not that I can think of,” she said.
“There comes a point in a long illness where you find yourself understanding that death can be a relief.”
She nodded and took a drink.
“I’m seeing someone,” I blurted out.
What an idiot.
I needed to slow down on the tequila.
“I’m married,” she said. “Well, separated. We’ll be divorced in a few more months, if everything goes according to plan—which it never does.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
“It’s for the better,” she said. “With the careers, we never see each other anyway.”
“Kids?” I said.
“No. Big surprise, huh?”
“I can’t say,” I told her.
Agent Byrne signaled our waiter for two more margaritas.
“Let’s not talk about family anymore tonight,” she said. “That okay with you, Detective?”
I nodded.
“How long have you been in Denver,” she asked.
“I grew up here,” I said. “My family has been here a long time.”
“I love it here,” she said. “My home is on the east coast. New York City. I’ve been staying out here, working the Calypso case. As you know, three years and counting.”
“That’s tough,” I said.
“The bureau takes pretty good care of me. A car, decent apartment, stipend for everything else. It works.”
“How is it a field agent from New York ends up working a case in Denver?”
“The task force has been looking at Calypso since he entered the country. When he came to Denver, we came with him.”
“Long way from home,” I said.
“Makes a woman lonesome.”
I believe in monogamy, if not in the whole “one person for everyone” theory. Greer began to fill in a void for me that I never thought could hold anything again—not love, sex, friendship, or even companionship. Had you asked me when Isabel was alive? I’d have told you flat out there would never be another woman for me.
I’ve since come to understand that monogamy—particularly for men, and particularly after a number of years together—is a choice. It’s a commitment; a promise between two people. It is not, however, the way we are wired. At least I don’t think so. We are inherently moral beings, and when we commit to someone, we decide to make good choices.
I didn’t, however, make a good choice with my new partner.
I think I knew the day I met her that I’d eventually find myself incapable of making the right decisions. When such a realization strikes us, we understand that we are at the mercy of another to make the right choices instead of us.
In this case, I was counting on my partner to show no interest. I didn’t care whether such a lack of action resulted from professionalism, morality, monogamy, spiritualism, lack of attraction, or any number of other factors.
But my feeling from the start was that I was vulnerable. I don’t think Amanda Byrne used that against me. I just think she was lonely. And that she felt the same way.
So, accordingly, the moment to act was a bit awkward—neither one of us being up to the task of initiating something. Still, we managed. The drinks didn’t hurt the process.
Her apartment was nondescript. It looked exactly as one would expect a home-away-from-home to look. Tidy. A fridge with a six-pack of beer, some processed lunch-meat, and a pitcher of filtered water.
After finishing off the beers, and breaking past the inertia, it became clear to me that I was correct—that the physical attraction was mutual.
We undressed each other quickly and fell into the bed within each other’s grasp. We coiled about each other, kissing, massaging, and pressing our bodies harder and harder into one another.
This was to be secession from the normality of our lives, not an inclusion or a continuance of anything. Still, it cheapens it too much to call it a “one night stand”.
The only thing of which I was certain that night was that it would never happen again.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I COULD not look Greer in the eyes. It was inevitable that I tell her because I could never hide such a terrible truth. I don’t mean that to imply I’m gallant. In fact, I’m a failure.
We men in general? Frankly, most of us are not suited for, nor deserving of, a good woman. And I don’t say that lightly. I don’t want it to be true—but more often than not I have felt like the inept jester in a court of lovely, capable queens. It’s not that I don’t understand women (although I don’t); it’s that I do understand men.
This is not to say that we will fail. If you take into consideration that we spend almost every minute from the time we hit puberty to the time we die trying not to screw it all up—well, we have a pretty good success rate.
But when we screw it up, we don’t do it with a hand grenade; we do it with a bazooka.
I’ve always believed that the world is a much more complicated place than we are all willing to admit. We men—we two-legged male mammals who are damned lucky to have climbed out of the primordial oo
ze and not been immediately eaten by the female of the species—well, we add to that universal complication.
Not that women are uncomplicated. On the contrary, I know they’re much more complex than we are. There is a difference between being complicated and complicating things.
My very existence complicates things for those around me.
“It meant nothing,” I said, and was sorry for saying it even as the air had not fully escaped my lungs.
She looked up at me—with venom behind those fiery green eyes.
“Don’t you say that. Don’t you ever say that to me again,” she hissed.
“Sorry.”
“Did you kiss her?” she said, murderous gaze still fixed on me.
“Yes.”
“Did you undress with her?”
“Yes.”
“Did you fuck her?”
I let my silence acquiesce my guilt.
“Then it sounds to me like something happened. In fact, it sounds like something happened long before you got drunk with her and decided to go with her to her apartment.”
“I’m sorry, Greer. I know it’s not nothing.”
“You know. No. You don’t KNOW.”
“Okay, I don’t know.”
“Damn it, Macaulay, don’t fuck with me,” she said, her anger now making her quake slightly.
“I mean it. I’m sorry.”
“Funny how people always say that AFTER they’ve screwed the pooch. Or, in this case, the partner.”
“Things have been complicated for me lately,” I said.
There are moments, particularly in a man’s life, when there are no good things to be said. We’ve done our worst—we’ve mangled everything to a point where the things that matter most now seem unrecognizable—and we are deservedly in the path of the storm.
Unfortunately, it’s also at these moments that the expectation is the highest for a man to say the right thing—something profound; something that will clear up everything; a declaration that will wipe the blood clean from the slate.
It’s not possible. I knew this, but I kept opening my mouth.
“Things are complicated for you?” Greer said. Her fury was just barely contained.
“Look, Greer, I’m not trying to provoke you. I made a huge mistake. Huge. And I know I’m the wrong one here—not you. Not anyone else.”
“Stop talking” she said.
“I can’t…”
“STOP!”
“What’s happening?” Cole said. He’d just gotten home from the movies and had walked into the middle of the fallout.
“It’s nothing,” I said.
“There’s that word again,” Greer spat.
“I mean nothing for Cole to worry about.”
“Cole will be happy to hear it, I’m sure,” Greer said.
“Happy to hear what?” Cole said.
“I won’t be around here anymore,” she said.
“Please, Greer,” I said.
She put on her jacket and picked up the car keys. I realized there was nothing I could say—nothing that would ever justify what I’d done and not a word in the world that might help her forgive me. And as she walked out of my house, I silently wondered if she was indeed walking out of my life.
Cole didn’t say a thing.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE BEAST waited impatiently. Waiting was not easy. Waiting was hard. The hunger to act was overwhelming. The need to destroy. Killing was the least of it; the beast’s driving nature was to consume. Everything. Leave nothing in its path. Nothing but a black hole of emptiness. One that could then be filled to the brim with all the evil in known Universe.
There was something else this time. Some other motivation. A directive. Thinking—reasoning—was hard too. Like the waiting. But there was another voice deep in the recess of the creatures mind. Not soul. There was no soul. There was barely mind. Instinct. Cunning. Ferociousness. A blackness that consumed all that used to be, even what might have once been a soul.
The monster could hear voices. Laughing. Young ones. A gathering of young souls. To enter the gathering, to feed—to destroy—this would be good. Better than waiting. But there was a purpose. Again, it spoke from deep in consciousness.
Him. Only him.
This time.
Just one.
Cole.
The party was fun, but Cole couldn’t stop thinking about what his father said. He, too, felt the chasm between them. He missed his dad. The time following his mother’s death had been difficult, and he had blamed his father. Detective Macaulay. Who caused his mother so much stress, always wondering if the next knock on the door or the next ringing phone would bring death with it?
Cole had read articles on the subject. Cancer could be caused by a number of factors. Worry and stress were very real precursors. He doubted his father remembered the conversations, when Cole told him he was worried, too.
“What’s your deal tonight?” Nikki said. “It’s like you don’t want to be here.”
“Nothing. Just thinking about my dad.”
Nikki took a drink of beer from a plastic cup.
“Your dad is who he’s always been. Never going to change. He’s a cop.”
“So now you’re the expert on my father?”
“My uncle was a cop. He was divorced four times.”
“My dad didn’t get divorced.”
“Whatever, Cole. I get it. But you need to loosen up. You’ve been uptight the whole time you’ve been back.”
Cole drank his own beer and said nothing.
“Makes me wonder about those Minnesota girls,” she said playfully.
Cole didn’t smile.
“So maybe I should be worried?” she said.
“No. No way,” he said.
“Then liven up,” she told him. “Or go home. You’re dragging this good time down, boyfriend.”
Cole worked up a half-smile for her. It was the best he could do.
It was an hour later when they left the party. Nikki’s house was only a mile away, so he walked her. What he really wanted to do was go for a run, work out all the stress that was twisting up his insides, turning his muscle to stone.
“You want to come in?” Nikki asked. “My parents are asleep—they’ll never hear us.”
“Not tonight,” Cole said. “I have some thinking to do. I’m going to jog back to the car.”
“No bad thoughts about us,” she said.
“No bad thoughts about us,” he said.
She kissed him and for a moment he felt better.
“All right, Mr. Morose. Have a good run.”
“See you tomorrow?”
She winked. “We’ll see.”
Cole ran at a nice clip. He had his ear buds in. He lived for music. Especially when he was down. He increased his speed as Rise Against blasted out “Help is on the Way”. He focused on staying light on his feet; keeping the pounding of his sneakers to a minimum. It helped him clear his head. Focus on the…
The attack came from his right side, out of the darkness, and the first thing Cole thought was I’ve been body checked. Whatever had hit him, he was airborne, and the wind was stolen from him.
As he tumbled into some bushes, he could feel the branches tearing open his flesh—but he was fully clothed. As he rolled along, he smelled something horrible—like an animal, and he realized that he was being attacked by a dog. Or a bear.
The beast sank its tined teeth into the muscular shoulder. Not the neck. With the neck there was a blood rush. The beast knew nothing of suffering. Only the kill. But this time the creature worked slowly. Cutting him. Removing layers of flesh.
The mouth closed on an ear and the ear was consumed.
Hair.
Skin.
Muscle.
Stay away from the organs, the beast thought. Claw shallow.
It took much concentration not to rip the strong boy to pieces.
When I arrived at the hospital, the first face I saw was Greer’s. I had
called her and left a message about the attack on Cole, but she’d not been returning my calls since leaving me a few days earlier.
“Baby, I …”
She stopped me in midsentence, throwing her arms around me, and I felt like falling on my knees and thanking God.
“Where is he?” I managed.
“He’s in the ICU. They told me he’s lost a lot of blood but he is stable.”
“Oh my God,” I said. “What’s happened here?”
“He was attacked by some kind of animal.”
“Animal?”
“He’s hurt badly, Bobby. The lacerations are severe. He’s lost an ear…”
“No,” I said. “That’s my boy.”
“The wounds are not life-threatening at this point, baby.”
“Is he conscious?”
“He’s heavily sedated. They’re trying to keep him comfortable while he’s being treated.”
“Where are the doctors?” I said.
“They’ll be back in a few minutes. He’s being treated by the burn team.”
“Burn team?”
“I’m so sorry, Bobby. I love you.”
Tears filled my eyes and streamed down my cheeks.
Already there was no doubt in my mind. I had seen the carnage at Sloan’s Lake. There was no way a victim survived an attack like this. No way. Cole should have died. He should have been torn to pieces.
This was clearly a message to me.
CHAPTER TWENTY
GREER AND I left the hospital the next morning and went to my place to get some rest. Cole was still sedated. He wouldn’t regain consciousness for several days. The burn team at the ICU wanted to get him past the worst of the pain before gradually bringing him back to life.
“I thought I was never going to see you again,” I said, as she lay on my chest.
“It’s been a tough few days,” she said. “But I figure we need to try.”
“I love you so much, Greer,” I said.
“We have a lot to talk about,” she said.
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