“What I’m trying to say is, I want to make a change, while I still have time. I want to make a difference. For you and me. This Webber fella? Denny drank his Kool Aid and is with him all the way. But me? I’m scared, Jenny. I gotta get away from all this. Try to live right for however many years I got left. And I don’t want to be alone anymore.” He tried to put all the sincerity in his voice that he felt inside. “I want you to come along for the ride.”
She pulled her hands from his and looked down at her cup of wine. When she spoke, her voice was soft and sad. “You know me, Chet. I drink too much. Way too much. I’ve tried to stop, but that damn vodka bottle keeps calling to me from the freezer. I can’t help myself.” She looked back at him. “I’m damaged goods. If you really what a ‘happily ever after’ ending for your life, find a better person.”
A coyote howled from the woods, giving voice to Chet’s dismay. “Please, Jenny. It’s not too late. At least, not too late to try.” He lowered his voice. “Look at me. I don’t got a lot of money. I certainly ain’t no George Clooney.” He slowly brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “But deep inside I think I’m a good man, a deserving man. More so, I’m hoping you feel the same about yourself.”
She looked at him for a while, silently regarding him or his words. Her grip on the cup tightened enough to crease the red plastic. She blinked several times, licked her lips. “I’m sorry, Chet. But I’m not like you. I’m not that strong.” The hope fled from her eyes. “Adam used to say the same thing. That we could stop our drinking and be better parents for Katie. It didn’t work out then, and it won’t now. You do deserve a better life, just not with me. I’d only bring you back down. I couldn’t live with myself if I did that to another person.” She shuddered. “Once was enough.”
The old Chet, hidden somewhere deep but still alive, screamed from the pain of another rejection, and the faint desire for a bourbon and cola swept through him for the first time in a day. The new Chet, still at the helm and steering the ship, ignored his old habits and smiled.
“How about this? We have another date. No fooling around. You and me have dinner again. We take it a day at a time. No promises, no commitments. Whadda ya think?”
Setting her cup of wine aside, Jenny sighed. “You know you’re setting yourself up, right? You’ll end up getting hurt, or worse.”
“I figure my pain’s my own business. I can risk it if I want to.”
The coyote howled again. Only this time it was much closer, and maybe it wasn’t a coyote. It sounded off. Funny.
Jenny threw a nervous glance toward the woods. “They don’t usually get this close, do they?”
“It’s probably just the chicken bones.” Chet scooped up the scraps and dumped them into a bag. “Damn animals can smell food a mile away.”
“But what if—?”
A shape emerged from the tree line. In the pale moonlight, it was a dark mass set against the darker backdrop of the trees. Larger than any coyote he’d ever seen. Larger than a bear….
“Chet,” Jenny said worriedly.
He grabbed her arm. “Get behind me.”
As he pulled her around the table, the animal broke into a loping run. It covered the distance with surprising speed and halted near the gazebo’s steps. A growl issued from its throat, a thrumming, two-toned sound, as if it were using different sets of vocal chords. Chet could make out sleek fur, but it looked uneven, patchy. Twin flickering points of red flame danced in the darkness: the candlelight reflected in the eyes of whatever it was.
Chet stepped around the table. Got between the creature and Jenny.
Flapping his hands, he shouted, “Go on now! Get! Get outta here!”
The creature dug its front paws into the dirt and stretched, just like a damned cat. When it rose, its large head—that part looked faintly wolfish—scented the air. And maybe it was the dark playing tricks on him, but dear God, he thought he saw the creature nod, as if satisfied!
“Ohmygodwhatisthatthing!” Jenny shrieked and began crying.
Okay, it wasn’t a trick of the dark. Jenny had seen the same incredible nod. Fear swept through him, old and primal, like a sailor’s fear of being caught on the water with a summer thunderstorm rolling hard and fast over the lake. That kind of fear.
He didn’t take his eyes off the creature. With one hand, he reached back. Groped along the top of the picnic table until he felt something thick and metallic. Brought his hand forward.
Great. He was now armed with a dinner knife. Against something that big.
“Jenny,” he shouted. “Jenny! Listen to me!” She quieted down. “Stay behind me. If you get a chance, run for your car. Bring back help.”
She didn’t answer. He turned to see if she’d heard him. There was a rustling sound. Chet snapped his head around—and the creature was gone.
He whipped his head left, right, spun around to look behind him. Damn, where’d it go? He hadn't heard any twigs snapping, no leaves crackling, no sound at all.
It had to be nearby, but where?
Chet slowly looked up. The roof? Couldn’t be, not up there—nothing can jump that high. And besides, he’d have heard it land. Still….
Slowly, silently, he slid one foot sideways, shifted his weight, drew the other foot in, edging back toward Jenny. Focus on the roof, he told himself. Wait for some sign that it was hiding up there. He slid again. Again. Now he was at the end of the table, no more than two feet from her. She had clamped her hands over her mouth, but she still made little whimpering noises. One of the bows had fallen out of her hair and landed on top of some leftover coleslaw.
“Jenny,” he whispered, extending a hand.
Before she could lift a hand, the floor erupted in a storm of shattered boards and flying nails. The explosion launched the picnic table into the air. It flipped, collided with the gazebo’s roof, and crashed to the floor, then skidded down the stairs and wedged between the wood handrails, blocking the exit.
With the candles snuffed out, darkness collapsed in on them, leaving behind the faint, crystalline glow of moonlight.
It took Chet a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. A broad swath of midnight climbed out of the hole in the floor. He laughed, brief, shrill. A panicked laugh.
Jenny backed away from the thing, muttering incoherently. She stopped when she hit the gazebo’s railing.
Once out of the hole, the thing turned toward her.
“No!” Chet cried, slashing at the creature with his knife. The blade slid harmlessly across its thick hide. Twisting, he landed a solid blow with his left fist, and the creature grunted. So it could be hurt. He shifted his grip on the knife so the blade pointed down. With the creature snarling, its jaws snapping at him, he drew his arm back. Then, like a pitcher throwing a fastball, he launched a hard, overhand blow at the creature’s back. Tears ran freely down his leathered cheeks as he drove years of frustration and rage into that one massive blow. He felt the blade skitter off something hard, and then sink in. The damned thing bellowed, turned…and stood up on its hind legs. Stunned, Chet didn’t have time react. The creature hit him with a backhand blow to the chest. The impact drove the air from his lungs, and suddenly he was flying backward, twisting in the air, the inky black surface of the lake sliding across his vision. His hips lifted, gained altitude, and forced his head down. He tried to throw his arms out to catch himself, but he wasn’t fast enough. He crashed hard into the picnic table, a thick board almost gutting him. The impact doubled him over. His head smacked solidly into more wood. The dark night turned a brilliant silvery-white, then back to black. He slid-rolled off the table and onto floor. The knife fell from his limp grasp. It clattered down the steps into the dirt below.
As Chet’s body hung half in the gazebo, half on the steps, the creature turned and advanced on Jenny. Still upright, its head grazed the boards forming the gazebo’s roof. Jenny, her eyes wide, stood transfixed as it reached with long, taloned fingers and grabbed her arms. Silhouetted against the moon-lit sur
face of Black Pine Lake, Chet saw the creature’s shoulders bunch, saw muscles cord under fur and…and scales? Jenny’s mouth split open into a soundless scream as the thing began to squeeze.
Chet tried to get up, desperately wanted to. He had to save Jenny. But the world had turned greasy from the pain wracking his body. He couldn’t get his legs to work—they slipped, slid, folded under him. He cried out in frustration.
With her arms pinned to her side, Jenny finally found her voice. She screamed and screamed. Oh God, how she screamed. That sound, that horrid, pitiful, helpless wailing, filled Chet with coppery waves of terror.
The thing was killing her!
Adrenaline surged through his body like an electrical charge. His heart racing, Chet scrambled over the upturned picnic table, threw a hand out, fingers clutching for the gazebo’s guardrail, banged clumsily against it, lost his balance and spilled forward. As he hit the floor face-first, something sharp ripped across his cheek. He brought his hand up, felt blood flowing from the wound; his trembling fingers pulled at the bent nail that had lodged itself into the meaty part of his jaw. The sour stench of urine filled the air, and he began crying when he realized he’d pissed himself.
All the while, Jenny’s screams filled his ears until he thought they would burst.
The creature’s jaws snapped at Jenny’s face. Her hands flapped uselessly as her elbows were driven into her ribcage. Then, like a man playing an accordion, the creature brought its large hands together. Jenny crumpled like a used napkin. Her screams were cut off as gouts of blood flew from her mouth and nose, from her eyes and ears. Her hands spasmed into fists; her feet drummed against the floor.
The creature lifted her. Shook her. Threw her into the night. She landed on the beach, some thirty feet away.
She wasn’t moving.
“No, no, God no,” rasped Chet through his tears. “I’m sorry, Jenny.”
The thing turned, dropped back on all fours. It issued a harsh, barking sound, almost like a hyena’s. Almost like laughter.
“What are you waiting for? I’m not afraid of you!”
The creature skirted the hole in the floor. It stopped before Chet.
“Come on!” he screamed. “Come and get me!”
And it did.
Chapter 13
Monday
Izzy was back in the interview room with Sten and her suspect. Bart Owens’ case file was tucked under her arm. A large cardboard box sat on the floor next to Sten Billick.
She plopped the file on the table, then rubbed absently at her eyes. They felt gritty from lack of sleep. Last night, she’d stopped at the hospital. Stanley’s condition remained unchanged, and, if anything, the doctors were increasingly concerned that he hadn't regained consciousness. She’d stood by his bedside, listening to the cadence of his heart monitor and the brooding hiss of his oxygen feed. His eyes were motionless beneath their lids. She wondered briefly if he could dream. Perhaps not—hopefully not. At least that way he would be free, however temporarily, of whatever demons haunted him.
After several minutes of watching his still form, she’d murmured a few words of comfort, brushed a stray hair or two from his forehead, and given him a quick kiss on the cheek. Then she went home to a meal of cold leftovers and not enough sleep.
The morning news had brought more bad news: a massive snow storm was rushing their way. The area could expect drastically colder temperatures and potentially several inches of snow.
Twenty years ago, when Izzy was still driving a patrol car, a blizzard had hit the area around Halloween. The states west of Michigan had been slammed the hardest. Still, Kinsey had received almost a foot of snow. The storm had paralyzed the town for almost two days. Four people had died from exposure.
She had to find Natalie, and quickly.
“Mr. Owens,” Izzy said, making sure the recorder was turned on. “I understand you’ve waived your right to an attorney. Is that correct?”
Owens nodded. “Only the guilty need a lawyer.”
She pulled out the affidavit she’d brought with her, pushed it across the table, and handed him a pen. “Could you please sign this? It states that you’ve waived your right.”
Owens signed it in one fluid motion and pushed it back. “There, now we’re official.”
“Thank you,” she said, sliding the form into a file folder. “Sten?”
The detective sat down. “Mr. Owens, we have evidence linking you to the disappearance of Natalie Morris. Right now, you’re looking at a variety of charges, all of them serious. And if she”—he glanced uncomfortably at Izzy—“if she turns up dead, you’ll be charged with murder. That’ll mean jail for the rest of your life. But we’re willing to make a deal. Cooperate, tell us where to find Natalie, and we’ll talk to the judge. Maybe work out some kind of arrangement.”
Owens said, “And if she is dead, Detective? What then?”
Izzy grew cold. “This is your only shot at a deal, Owens. I’d take it if I were you.”
Owens shifted his attention from Sten to Izzy. Those blue eyes threaded into her. “I’m not a stupid man, Chief Morris. My initial arraignment has to be held before tomorrow afternoon. At which time, I’m going to ask the judge if I could see the search warrant that allowed your officers to search my personal property and find that necklace. When he discovers there wasn’t one, the evidence will be ruled inadmissible. Your case will be dismissed, and I will walk away a free man.” He turned back to Sten. “So let’s not confuse the issue with talk of reduced sentences and leniency.”
Sten’s expression didn’t change. Izzy simply nodded. She had expected something like this, especially after Owens had mentioned the search warrant yesterday. Their offer of cooperation had been a long shot, but one worth taking.
She reached into the cardboard box next to Sten and withdrew a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside it was a small silver necklace—two interlocking hearts attached to a thin chain. She tossed the bag onto the table. “Look familiar?”
Owens studied the necklace. “I assume it’s your daughter’s.”
“It was found at the bottom of this.” She retrieved his duffel bag from the box and laid it beside the necklace.
“It was found in my kit bag,” said Owens. “That doesn’t mean I put it there.”
A moment of silence, then Sten: “Seriously? You’re telling us it was a plant?”
“You should at least consider it,” replied Owens, picking up the plastic bag containing the necklace. “This wasn’t in my room when I left yesterday, which means one of the officers searching my room had it.” He turned to Izzy. “That person does know something about your daughter.”
Sten shook his head. “‘The cops framed me’ is the oldest excuse in the world, Mr. Owens.”
“No, that would be ‘my neighbor did it.’” Owens set the evidence bag back on the table. “Find who planted this and you’ll be closer to finding the girl.”
Izzy and Sten exchanged glances. They had both read the chain of custody documentation. The signature of the officer who’d found the necklace had been very clear.
Carlton Manick.
But he had an alibi for Friday night. He’d been on patrol, and she had a whole night’s worth of call logs to verify it.
“All right,” Sten said. “This is getting us nowhere. We’re going to start from the beginning. And this time, no more talk about planted evidence.”
“Hold on,” Izzy said. She had seen something, a splash of color against the drab green of Owens’ duffel. She turned it over and pointed to the design stitched into the material. “What is that?”
Owens ran his finger lightly over the worn threads. “That’s the insignia of the 761st Tank Battalion. From back in the second World War.”
Sten cocked an eyebrow. “So this is some kind of family heirloom? Your grandfather fought in the war?”
Owens smiled ruefully. “No, afraid not.”
“Then how’d you get it?” Sten asked.
“I collect o
ld war memorabilia.”
Izzy said, “Kit bag.”
Owens frowned up at her. “I’m sorry?”
“Kit bag,” she repeated. “You called your duffel a ‘kit bag.’ I’ve met plenty of military over the years. That’s pretty much an Army term.” She smiled. “So, where’d you serve? Nam? Gulf War?”
Owens stared at her for a moment. Then he scooted back his chair and stood.
“I’ve been cooperative up to now, Chief Morris. You know my arrest was based on evidence found in an illegal search. I demand to be released.”
Sten shot to his feet, and Izzy moved to block Owens’ access to the door.
“Sit down,” she said sharply, pointing to the chair. “I have you for another day, and I plan on using it. You will tell me where my daughter is.”
Owens remained standing, his body tense. For a moment, Izzy thought he might actually make a run for it. Then he relaxed and slowly folded himself back into the chair. He scrubbed his face with his hands. When he was done, he looked expectantly at Sten.
“May I have some coffee, please?”
Sten frowned. “Now?”
“Please,” he repeated. “After that, we’ll talk. I promise.”
“Get the man his coffee,” Izzy said tiredly. “We could use a break.”
But could Natalie?
Sten returned with three large, steaming mugs, two black and one with cream and sugar for Izzy. She held hers cupped in her hands, grateful for the warmth flowing into her fingers. Sten slid Owens’ mug across the table, and the other man drank two large gulps.
Izzy blew into her mug, took a sip and burned her lips. She jerked the mug back, spilling more onto her hand.
“Damn,” she muttered, then looked curiously at Owens as he swallowed another mouthful.
He caught her staring at him, smiled, and lifted his mug. “Good coffee.”
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