Wolf Land

by Jonathan Janz

  “Great,” Duane said. “Time to trot out the negative male stereotypes.”

  “Duane?”

  “What?”

  “Shut your goddamned mouth.”

  “What if I don’t want to?”

  “I’ll rip off your nut sack and drop it down the garbage disposal.”

  He brought his legs together. “Jesus.”

  “You ready to listen?”

  “I guess I have to be, huh?”

  “I’m not a type.”

  He stared at her.

  She went on. “Guys don’t understand women. I mean, that’s nothing new. It’s been that way since we were walking hunched over in caves, and it’ll be that way when we’re all flying around with jet packs.”

  “Like Iron Man?”

  She pointed to the garbage disposal. “You testing me?”

  Duane shut up.

  “But it isn’t just the lack of understanding that causes problems, Duane. It’s the misinformation that fills the void.”

  Duane opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Savannah held up a hand. “And I know women don’t understand men either. You made your points about that issue last night, and a couple of them even made sense. But at the moment I’m the one talking, and you’re the one keeping your trap shut. I’ve heard enough of the men’s liberation movement for one weekend.”

  Duane leaned back in his chair.

  “So last night I’m lying there,” Savannah went on, “and I’m thinking of all the stuff you said to me. I’m thinking of Mike, Glenn—” She saw his face twist into a jealous scowl and said, “Get over it, all right? Be an adult. That’s part of the problem here.”

  Duane tried to conceal his hurt by glancing at the refrigerator, where a number of Jake’s drawings were displayed. To Duane they all looked like arrhythmic EKG lines, but hey, the kid was five, right?

  “Anyway,” Savannah said, “I went over all the relationships I’ve had with boys since elementary school, both the romantic ones and the platonic ones, and I looked for patterns.”

  Duane eyed her, trying not to look too interested.

  “The outlier, of course, was Mike, but that was because of how he changed when he went pro.”

  “Actually,” Duane said with a nasty grin, “he never made it to the pros.”

  “He became a professional baseball player the moment the Cubs paid him a signing bonus. And you just demonstrated one of the primary problems.”

  “Would you speak English?”

  “Jealousy,” Savannah said.

  “Why would I be jealous of a dead man?” Duane said and immediately regretted it.

  But if Savannah was hurt, she didn’t show it. “Jealousy and insecurity. Plus the universal human need to compartmentalize.”

  Duane rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Hey, I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean—”

  “Forget your regret for a moment, okay?”

  Duane paused.

  “Are you doing that?”

  “I guess,” he said.

  “Focus on what I’m saying.”

  When she didn’t go on, he said, “I’m focusing.”

  She narrowed her eyes, searching his. “I’m not convinced, but at least you’re trying. So what I realized at some point between five and six a.m. is this: you and every other guy—with the exception of the postdraft Mike—see me as some elusive, unreachable goddess.”

  When he started to shake his head, she waved him off. “Or princess or queen or whatever terminology you want to use. You don’t really see a person, Short Pump. You see these eyes, this hair. You see my freckles. Don’t tell me you don’t find them attractive.”

  Duane tried not to blush.

  “You see the dimples in my cheeks. You notice my breasts, my ass. You see my complexion, my outer self. But neither you nor any other guy has seen what’s inside.”

  He shook his head. “It’s like we never even talked last night.”

  Savannah’s eyes flared. “This isn’t about you making me a sex object, Duane. This is a different discussion. It’s about what you make of what’s inside me.”

  “It’s like I need a goddamned translator. Could you maybe furnish me with one? Provide subtitles or something?”

  “It’s simple,” she said, enumerating her points on her fingers. “You take my appearance. My face, my body.” She raised her eyebrows. “You with me so far?”

  Duane shrugged.

  “You have no idea what’s inside me, but you know what’s on the outside, and you know how that exterior makes you feel.”

  “This ought to be good.”

  “I provide a thrill. I make you wistful. I’m every rock ballad you’ve ever heard.”

  “You’re not making sense.” But he said it weakly, because what she was saying made too much sense.

  “You know how I make you feel,” she persisted. “Which is the way you felt back in elementary school and especially in junior high. I’m that unattainable goddess you pined for, that girl who starred in the personalized music videos you created for all those love songs.”

  Duane wouldn’t even consider looking at her now. He felt hollowed out, shallow.

  Exposed.

  Savannah nodded. “The girl you created—and not just you, Duane, I’m talking about all the guys I’ve ever met—she’s always riding shotgun in your convertible, her hair blowing all over the place, a small, inscrutable smile on her face. It’s forever sunset, and I’m always there to look at you that way, to kiss you, to be languid and motherly yet always far away, except when you’re making love to me. On blankets, under trees that are changing colors. Can you hear the music playing, Short Pump? Do you have the soundtrack in mind?”

  There was a lump in his throat.

  “But here’s the problem, Short Pump. I’m not that girl. Whatever thoughts you’re attributing to me. Whatever sphinxlike facial expressions, those aren’t mine either.”

  Duane’s voice was little more than a dry croak. “What are you then?”

  She offered him a sad, wan smile. “I’m just me, Short Pump. Nothing special, nothing exciting.”

  When he started to protest, she leaned across the table, seized his hand. “Don’t you see? That’s all I want to be. That’s all I can be. I’m not your ideal woman. I’m not anyone’s. I’m just a person guys happen to think is attractive, which means I’m constantly starring in imaginary music videos. But I can never be the elusive pixie who confirms your false belief that the perfect girl is waiting for you. There is no perfect girl, Short Pump. Not for you, not for Glenn. Not even for Mike, had he lived.”

  Duane sat in smothered silence.

  Tears shimmered in Savannah’s eyes. “I could see Mike had gone back to thinking that way too. Making me into the Ideal Woman. He’d gone through so much misfortune, so much failure, he thought I was the one who’d make his life good again. Hell, maybe he even hoped I’d resurrect his baseball career.”

  Duane noticed she was still holding his hand.

  She laughed at herself. “You want to know what’s really inside me?”

  He waited.

  She wiped her eyes. “Other than gas?” When he chuckled, she said, “I mean it, Short Pump. I’m the gassiest person I know. Jake gets mad at me for farting so much.”

  Duane found himself smiling.

  “But other than that,” she said, “what’s really inside is wondering what’s wrong with me. Being mad at myself for being so difficult to please. Guys falling over themselves for me, it’s spoiled me a little. But I don’t feel worthy of all that, not deep down. I feel like I’m not very bright.”

  “You got good grades,” Duane pointed out. “You got a college degree.”

  She grunted, dabbed at her eyes. “And I had to study my ass off to do that. Half the books I had to rea
d, I still don’t know what they were about.” Seeing his look, she hurried on. “Oh, I’m not playing the dumb blond card or anything. I know I’m not feebleminded. But most of the time I feel like my intellect is…well, average.”

  “I feel that way sometimes too,” he said.

  Savannah said, “You’re one of the smartest people I know.”

  He tried not to show how pleased he was. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I’m fairly perceptive, but that doesn’t get you all the way. You’ve got to be able to use what you know, right? Apply it?”

  “I guess.”

  From the bedroom came the distant sound of a commercial, some electronic dance song, probably advertising a new toy Jake would want. The music was mindless, repetitive. Not unlike Dance Naked had sounded last night.

  Duane jolted in his chair.

  “What?” Savannah said, pulling her hand away.

  “Are you done telling me how much I’ve misjudged you?”

  She grinned a little. “For now.”

  “Good. Because I think I know who killed Mike.”

  Savannah’s grin faded.

  An hour later, after Duane washed the sleep grime off his face and after they’d dropped Jake off at the church stay-and-play, they motored over to Callahan’s Collectibles to tell Barb everything they knew. Barb listened to the whole thing without saying a word. Or changing her expression. Duane let Savannah do most of the talking. Truth was, there was something about the six-foot-two woman standing behind the cash register that scared the crap out of him. Always had. The old saying was “She doesn’t suffer fools”, but to Duane it seemed like Barb wouldn’t suffer anybody. At least, that was what her look suggested. Lines around her eyes, broad face beginning to sag into jowly old age. He figured Barb was only fifty-five or so, but there was enough mileage there to push her appearance closer to sixty-five.

  When Savannah finished, Barb turned to Duane. “Anything else?”

  Duane shook his head.

  “You capable of speech?” Barb asked.

  “I can talk.”

  “Then answer me a question. Who did the killer go after first?”

  “Mike,” Savannah said.

  “And how many people were there?” Barb asked. Her voice was inflectionless, all business.

  Savannah looked up at Duane. “I don’t remember. What did the paper say? Fifty?”

  “Around fifty,” Duane agreed.

  “And this guy, he went straight at Mike,” Barb said.

  “I told you it wasn’t a man,” Savannah said.

  “I know what you told me,” Barb said. “Forget semantics for now.”

  Savannah looked like she was about to protest, but Duane said, “He definitely went for Mike.”

  “Have you considered why?” Barb asked.

  Duane and Savannah exchanged a glance. Savannah said, “I’m sure the police around here—”

  “—have the cumulative intelligence of a rhubarb plant,” Barb finished. “They don’t know a thing. If the murders had happened in town, Pete Hoffman would’ve been in charge. But since it was outside city limits, it fell to Lane Cartwright, who’s utterly incompetent. Now it’s with the state police, who don’t sound much better.”

  Duane grinned. “Lane Cartwright sounds like an Old West lawman.

  Barb gave him a look. “So the killer goes for Mike, gets its appetite whetted, and goes on a blood frenzy. Everybody scatters. Then last night, someone who looks like the killer starts asking you about Mike.”

  Duane said, “He might’ve looked like the killer. I was drunk at the bonfire, so it could’ve been—”

  Behind them, the bell over the front door tinkled. Duane spun, expecting the man from the Roof to be striding toward him, his face hairy and dripping with blood. But it was just a white-haired woman a few years younger than King Solomon. The woman shuffled over to a table populated by garishly painted gnomes.

  “So we know who did it,” Barb said. “The shape-shifting accountant.”

  Savannah’s eyes widened. “You believe what we said about the werewolf?”

  “I don’t believe a bit of it,” Barb said. “I was just trying to get into the spirit of the thing.”

  “Wait a second,” Duane said. “I’m not saying the guy last night was definitely the same guy that…you know…”

  “Transformed into a monster and disemboweled seven people?” Barb said. “For the moment, let’s assume it was, all right? Where does that get us?”

  “Nowhere,” Savannah said.

  “You’re dumber than a titmouse.”

  “Hey,” Savannah said, mouth agape.

  “Well, use your goddamned brain then.”

  Savannah’s nostrils flared. “Fine.” She drew in a breath, let it out shudderingly. “The werewolf attacked Mike for a reason. So we need to establish a motive.”

  Duane glanced at Barb, but the woman’s expression gave nothing away.

  “Mike is the key,” Savannah said. “So who all has Mike hurt?”

  “You,” Duane said before he could stop himself.

  Savannah gave him a thorny look. “I’m not the one who killed him.”

  “Who else?” Barb asked.

  Savannah’s expression grew pained, the vein in her forehead more pronounced. “I mean, he was arrogant…full of himself. He wasn’t very nice to a lot of people, but it’s not like he ever wronged them.”

  “Think harder,” Barb said.

  Savannah searched Barb’s face. “You sound like you know.”

  Barb didn’t answer right away, but she didn’t have to. Because it had already slugged Duane in the gut, the obvious truth. Mike Freehafer had been a cocky, failed athlete, but he wasn’t evil incarnate. His sin wouldn’t have been deliberate or born of malice. It would have been an act of irresponsibility.

  “The crash,” Duane said. “He killed that girl on Highway 65. Which means the werewolf—whatever killed Mike was—”

  “Someone close to the dead girl,” Savannah finished.

  Duane bit his lip. “Her boyfriend?”

  Barb cocked an eyebrow at him. “How old did you say the man was?”

  Savannah sucked in air. “The girl’s father.”

  “Better,” Barb said.

  “So we look up the dead girl’s name,” Savannah said. “We get the information on her dad and we’ve got the killer.”

  “Seems too easy,” Duane said. And it did. If that’s all there was to it, he’d rue the fact that he hadn’t put it together earlier.

  Had the shape-shifting CPA killed the people at the drive-in?

  As if she’d divined his thoughts, Barb said, “Why didn’t you go to the cops right away?”

  Duane scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I was at Savannah’s.”

  “In her driveway,” Barb said. “Protecting her.”

  “Well…yeah.”

  Barb’s pitiless gaze burned into him. “What were you planning on doing if the killer showed up?”

  Duane felt perspiration moistening his armpits. “You know, defend her.”

  “You got a gun?”

  He hesitated. “No.”

  “What were you going to do, club him with an ice scraper?”

  Savannah placed a hand on his shoulder. “Take it easy, Barb.”

  “You’re just as bad,” Barb said to her.

  Savannah flinched. “Me?”

  “You,” Barb agreed. “Why’d you come here instead of the police?”

  Savannah uttered a breathless laugh. “You said yourself how dumb the cops are. Why would we—”

  “You two know the killer’s probable identity. What if he’s left town between last night and this morning?”

  Savannah took out her cell phone. “Let’s call the police and let them figure it out.” />
  Duane shook his head. “This can’t be all there is to it.”

  But that’s all there was to it. They found Dave Garner—that was the name of the dead girl’s father—staying at the Blue Bay Inn. He’d rented a cabin for the summer, evidently thinking he’d be able to kill for an entire season without detection.

  According to Barb’s sources, Dave Garner didn’t act surprised at all. Didn’t put up a fight. Just went peacefully with the armada of county police officers who descended on the Blue Bay Inn.

  And what kind of a name, Duane wondered, was Dave Garner for a serial killer? The guy sounded like a former quarterback or a lawyer. Not a bloodthirsty berserker. That was the toughest part to swallow, the authorities had said: the notion that this guy, who seemed no more threatening than any other balding middle-aged man, could so thoroughly terrorize fifty people, not to mention slaughter seven of them in spectacularly bloody fashion.

  So Garner was arrested.

  Two hours later, Duane and Savannah were called in to confirm he was the Bonfire Killer.

  Chapter Twenty

  Glenn was buried under a mound of blankets when he first heard the tap on the door.

  Cops, he thought.

  Then, This is it.

  He’d done what he could to clean up the mess, but really, anyone could see that something terrible had happened here last night. The blood refused to disappear from the hallway carpet, and the tarp he’d stretched over the shattered front window screamed guilt.

  The tapping came again, louder this time, and Glenn fleetingly wondered why the police were being so polite.

  Glenn didn’t know if there was a death sentence in Indiana, so when—not if—they got caught, he might find his miserable new existence swiftly ended. But whether he lived for six months or sixty years, he’d never be able to forget the way Weezer had treated him last night after the murders.

  Put her body in the trunk of her car, Weezer had said.

  At that point Glenn had been too horrified to move from the interior of the Ford Focus. So Weezer had seized him by the shirtfront, hauled him out bodily and heaved him into the yard. Just a few feet from where Rebecca’s ravaged, glistening remains lay strewn in the grass.