But they would want her back. Oh, how they’d want her back.
And not just for their titillation either. They’d want to make sure she hadn’t talked to anyone. And they’d want to punish her.
The couple times she had escaped, they’d brought her back and treated her like a POW.
She couldn’t take it.
Even now, crouched down amid the thorn bushes and the bugs and the slanting, searing sunlight that punished her naked flesh, she preferred this existence to one in bondage.
And in a way, she’d be sparing them too. She knew what she was becoming. Last night had been a revelation. She’d been so worked up after they attacked her that she’d launched herself into the fastest sprint she could muster.
She was impossibly agile.
And she could run forever. Moving on all fours, she estimated she could reach forty miles per hour, maybe even fifty. Several times last night, on a whim, she’d find herself loping beside cars on Rangeline Road, running abreast of them for maybe a quarter mile before succumbing to fatigue.
Then there’d been the horse.
Melody had always liked horses. Growing up, some of the kids at school had raised horses, shown them in 4-H, but the closest Melody ever came to one was at a birthday party when she was nine. There’d been free pony rides, and my, how she’d enjoyed herself. Jostling along at a slow canter, laughing and clutching the reins in exhilaration and fear. When her dad arrived to pick her up, she’d cried and made sort of a scene, so of course he’d smacked her when he got her back in the truck. But the whole ride home, that night in bed, for months after the birthday party, all she could think about was sitting astride that horse, his beautiful chestnut hair catching and holding the sun glow, the comforting smell of him wrapping her, warm and full, as they moved back and forth along the edge of her friend’s yard. It was a cherished memory, one she returned to often during the evenings in the pole barn, the nights spent under her father and brothers.
But last night she hadn’t seen the horse as a companion.
It had looked different, for one thing. Rather than medium-sized and chestnut-hued, this one had been massive, a gray-and-white horse, the leprous blotches of color showing on the great beast’s neck like something unfinished or something diseased.
She’d come upon it suddenly, a good five or six miles from their house, and it happened quite by accident. She’d only intended to peer inside the bluish windows, to glimpse the people in the house watching television. She hadn’t been particularly hungry at the time, so she didn’t think she’d have bothered the people in the house regardless of what went on in the horse pen.
But when she did stumble upon the horse pen and spied the single horse standing inside, she found herself growing agitated. She hadn’t been cognizant of it because it was all instinct. She’d been moving upright, and the glimpse she’d caught of herself in the people’s window had revealed a being not unlike a woman. True, it had been an alarmingly wild-looking woman, one with yellowish eyes and a beastlike maw, but her figure, her shape, had been pretty much the same as it had always been.
But the horse knew.
Or sensed, rather. It saw her before she saw it, and perhaps the reason why it was so frightened of her was because it was a male horse. Melody didn’t know much about horses. Knew, in fact, very little. Because her dad would never pay for lessons, and her brothers made fun of her whenever she’d bring a horse book home from the school library.
But she could see the big, hanging dick well enough, which explained the phrase “hung like a horse”. The shock of the meaty black cylinder had scarcely registered when her eyes flicked up to the horse’s white gaze, the expression she first mistook for terror. Or rather, for only terror. Because there was more there than fright. There was loathing.
The horse despised her and felt sullied by her presence. And mingling with this was an appalling species of bigotry. To the horse, she was the other, and though she’d only eked out a B-minus in Mrs. Culross’s English class her senior year, she’d understood what Stevenson meant in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, understood the revulsion people felt for what was different from them.
Because she had always been the other. Because of her clothes, which were first unstylish because her dad bought them, and were later skimpy because she picked them out. Because of her family. Because she’d never had a single female friend. And because she only ever had boyfriends for a short time because they tired of her or because her father and brothers threatened to kill the boy if she persisted in dating him.
The horse hated her not just because of what she was
(shivering)
but because of what she wasn’t.
(breath going ragged)
It hated her and whinnied and stamped and its eyes and teeth showed and Melody climbed into the pen, forcing her way between the slats just before the change made
(prowling forward on spreading paws)
such a contortion impossible, and she followed the horse with preternatural patience as it galloped to the other end of the pen
(shoulder muscles bunching, bones spiking)
and she could tell it was freaked out, would leap over the top slat if she let it get too spooked, so she trotted along at a parallel, but not directly toward it because that would send it into a panic, and she took her yellow eyes off it and tried to feign indifference, but it was still bucking and staring at her as though it beheld all the demons of hell, and she timed it so the horse’s underbelly was exposed, darted under its lethal front hooves and wrapped her sinuous arms around it, drove it back, and landed atop it in a whir of kicking legs and thrashing mane. Melody clambered over its great mottled torso before it could writhe onto its hooves again, but rather than gutting the animal as she could have easily done, she went for its eyes, its huge, staring eyes, her hooked nails piercing the white orbs and tearing trenches down them, and when the milky sclera gushed over her knuckles, the horse did shriek, and moments later the lights went on outside the house.
She knew the owners would have a gun—everyone out here did—so she removed the throat, let it gush over her snarling mouth, and the hot metallic liquid fired her throat, made her ravenous and sickened, and only later did she realize she’d also experienced a body-clenching orgasm, one so powerful and sustained that the owners were halfway to the horse pen before she realized the peril she was in. Keeping low, she scampered on all fours—it was easiest to move that way once the change was entire—and because she was too large in her new form, she simply lowered her head and shattered the bottom slat. The gate swung open as she rushed into the forest, and by the time she heard the wails, she was already a hundred yards away.
Melody jolted back to her senses when an orange truck barreled into the driveway of her house, the sunlight catching all the dents and the rust spots as it jangled toward the pole barn. It was one of Donny’s projects, an International dump truck from the eighties. A diesel. She could smell its stale black fumes from here. Like corruption.
Like her brothers.
The truck stopped short of the pole barn and her brothers piled out. So did Father Bridwell. Donny had been driving, so he came last. He growled something at Robbie—“Call that bitch Adriana, see if she’s heard from Melody”—and stepped toward the bean field.
Melody tensed. Though she was more than eighty yards from where Donny stood, she could see him perfectly well. Even more, she could smell him. He hadn’t showered since the incident in the pole barn, and as a result she could smell the frustrated sex on him.
Unease trickled through her, whipped up a fine sheen of sweat. She passed a hand over her brow and felt the scrape of congealed blood.
She wiped her hand on some tall grass, remembering the horse. She must look a mess. Hair tangled. Crusted with blood. Sweaty and stinky and crawling with bugs. She needed a bath in the worst way, but she couldn’t face her family. Not yet.
Donny moved several yards into the bean field, trying to retrace her steps. Melody remained hunkered down, confident in the inability of his puny eyesight to pick her out from this distance. If he came any closer, well, she’d just have to—
No. She wouldn’t think about that, not yet.
She knew her days of being raped and beaten and tortured with splintery broom handles were over. No more ropes, no more cigarette burns. She had something that would protect her now. A deterrent. She didn’t relish the idea of going home, but her stuff was there, and she refused to sneak in and out like some kind of thief. Besides, there were matters to be worked out. Money. And the understanding that she was not to be followed or harmed in any way.
She knew they would not accept that, not at first, but she was through with being terrorized.
Robbie came out of the house and moved up beside Donny, who asked him a question. Melody was amazed at her ability to pick up their words despite the great distance between them.
“Adriana know anything?” Donny asked.
“Hasn’t heard from her. They’re not really that close, you know.”
Damn right we’re not, Melody thought. I’m only nice to her because she’s your girlfriend, Robbie. When you’re not around, she treats me like trash.
“Did you lean on her?” Donny asked.
“Lean on her? This isn’t the freakin’ mob. Besides, I don’t think Adriana and Mel ever talk.”
“They’re girls,” Donny said. “All girls talk.”
“That’s dumb, Donny.”
Quicker than she could have imagined, Donny backhanded Robbie, sent him spinning balletically into the bean plants. If she hadn’t just witnessed it, she would’ve guessed Robbie’s fall was choreographed. For one thing, there’d been no sound when Donny’s hand had met Robbie’s face. For another, Robbie had been launched backward several feet, like he’d been struck by a cannonball rather than a set of bony fingers. But Donny’s face looked genuinely furious as he barked expletives at his supine brother.
She was so transfixed by the sight of Donny bullying their youngest sibling that she didn’t hear the figure sneak up behind her, didn’t even smell him because he was downwind of her. And the worst part was that even before she turned and gazed up at John’s remorseless face and discovered the shotgun leveled at her forehead, she realized she’d been duped. Because Donny and Robbie were both staring this way, hands visoring their eyes as they stood, shoulder to shoulder, partners in deception.
“You know where to go,” John said.
She watched him for a long moment, considered talking to him, but saw it would do no good. He was emotionless, like always. If there was a flicker of anything in his muddy brown eyes, it was sadism. The suppressed gleam you saw in the kid holding the magnifying glass as the ants crackled and burst in the white-hot pinprick of heat.
“Get going,” he said. “Dad’s already sore enough.” John smiled, an expression so hideously out of place on his blank mask of a face that Melody wanted to scream. “Plus, you owe me one from last night.”
Melody let the door in her mind crash shut. Like twisting valves, she closed off her emotions. This wouldn’t be the end of things, she knew, but if she didn’t go with John he’d make good on his threat. He really would shoot her. That’s why they’d sent him. Because he felt so little, and what he did feel was black and slithery.
The gun like a living presence behind her, Melody emerged from the thicket and started across the bean field.
Chapter Twenty-One
The waiting room at the sheriff’s office fell silent. Duane stared at Savannah, certain he’d heard her wrong. “Come again?” he said.
But she only repeated herself. “It’s not him.”
Duane remained gape-mouthed for a moment. Then something clicked in his head. “You’re just falling for the disguise, remembering the whole tough-guy image he had going. Look beyond that. At the actual face.”
She tongued the inside of her cheek, her eyebrows raised. “I’m not an idiot, Short Pump. I looked at his face.”
“Then you must see—”
“A different person,” she said. “A completely different person.”
Duane strode over to the sheriff. “Can I go in?”
Sheriff Lane Cartwright was on the short side, but well-built for a guy who had to be nearing sixty. He looked up at Duane. “Regardless of what you say in there, we’ve got to let him walk.”
Duane made a show of examining the fifteen-by-fifteen room they were in. “Must be something wrong with the acoustics in here. It sounded to me like you’re about to let Garner go free.”
Cartwright sighed, but his tone was unruffled. “Six survivors from the bonfire incident have been in to see Mr. Garner, including Miss Summers here. Not a single one has ID’d Garner as the killer. Hell, this isn’t even supposed to be my investigation. The state guys will have a fit if they found out I brought Garner in.”
Duane opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, Cartwright went on. “You’re aware of the killings at the drive-in last night?”
Duane motioned toward the holding room in which Garner was being questioned, but again Cartwright headed him off. “We’ve got witnesses saying Mr. Garner was at the Roof all evening—”
“But—”
“—including you, Mr. McKidd.” Cartwright’s look went icier. “Or have you forgotten the statement you gave us not thirty minutes ago?”
Duane resisted an urge to smack the look off the sheriff’s face.
He could see Cartwright was about to dismiss him, and when that happened, it wouldn’t be long before Dave Garner was dismissed too. Out of jail and into Lakeview, where he could stalk anyone he wanted, could threaten and menace and generally scare the shit out of them.
Or kill them.
“I’ll talk to Garner,” Duane said.
Cartwright’s eyes widened in disbelief. “I hope you’re talking about apologizing to the man. Poor guy’s been through the wringer. All he wanted was a quiet summer to forget what happened to his girl.”
Duane nodded. “And how about that? He just happened to choose the town in which his daughter’s killer was living?”
Savannah smacked him on the shoulder. “Show some respect for Mike.”
He gestured feebly. “I’m not saying Mike deserved to die.”
“You called him a killer.”
“You know what I meant.” His lips worked mutely. “Okay, how about accidental death-inducer?”
“That’s not funny!”
“I’m not trying to be funny!”
Cartwright moved toward the door leading out. “I’ll leave you two to sort out your differences.”
“No,” Duane said, rushing over to him. “Please. Just let me talk to Garner.”
His hand on the door handle, Cartwright said, “Give me a good reason why.”
“You can hear what we say in there, right?”
Cartwright eyeballed him. “Of course. It’s an interrogation room.”
“Then let me get what I can out of him.”
Cartwright was shaking his head, but Duane backed off, gave the sheriff his most disarming look. “I swear I won’t get anybody in trouble, least of all you.”
“I’m not worried about me, I’m worried about a man who’s been accused of mass murder, who’s probably gonna sue the pants off us.”
“They’ll blame me,” Duane said. “I’m the one who—”
“The hell they will,” Cartwright snapped. “In this day and age people are just dying to bash the police. Every asshole with an iPhone wants to catch a cop doing something wrong. What do you think Garner will do? A guy with money and an honest-to-goodness reason to be mad at the police?”
“Look, I know you don’t owe me anything.”
“You’re goddamned right I don�
��t.”
“But I’m begging you—please let me have five minutes with him. I’m sure he’ll talk to me.”
“I’m sure he will too,” Cartwright answered. “He’ll probably kick your teeth in.”
“Then let him do it. You’ll have a reason to lock him up.”
“If I was him,” Cartwright said, “I’d want to beat your ass too.”
Duane didn’t have an answer for that.
Duane was sure Cartwright would tell them to get the hell out of his jail, but the sheriff exhaled wearily, rubbed a hand over his whiskered cheeks and said, “Five minutes. He comes after you for telling lies, I’m not putting a stop to it.”
Both Cartwright and one of his deputies, a younger guy with ginger hair and long, lanky limbs, leaned against the walls on either side of the room. Duane sat across the table from Dave Garner, who wore the same clothes he’d had on last night.
Garner was grinning at him. Or at least Duane assumed it was Garner.
Because the man’s face was different.
A half-muffled voice in the back of Duane’s mind cried out, He’s a shape-shifter! That’s what they do. They shift shapes!
Nonsense, he thought. There had to be some other rational reason for Garner’s apparent alteration in facial structure.
Makeup?
Are you kidding me?
Or maybe it was the lighting in here.
The lighting is unremarkable, the voice argued. Overhead fluorescents that haven’t been cleaned since the Reagan era.
Wolf Land Page 21