Wolf Land

by Jonathan Janz

Duane squirmed in his chair, willed himself to concentrate, to ignore the sweltering heat in the room, the baleful stares of the policemen flanking them. He examined Garner’s narrow cheekbones, his grizzled jaw, which was recessed more than it had been last night at the Roof.

  Then Duane had it.

  Garner was sick. He had some type of condition that caused wild fluctuations in his weight, his skin color. He was having a bad spell right now. A thyroid problem maybe.

  Or maybe you have a problem facing reality, the voice answered. Maybe you just don’t want to admit you made a mistake, that you’ve caused an already grieving man a great deal of embarrassment and heartache.

  Duane asked, “Why did you come to Lakeview, Mr. Garner?”

  Garner’s smile never wavered. “I told you last night, Mr. McKidd.”

  “Tell the others what you told me,” Duane said with a nod each at Cartwright and the deputy. “Tell them what you said about Savannah and Mike.”

  Garner’s face remained impassive. “I wanted to know more about Savannah Summers. She’s as much a victim as everybody else.”

  “Come again?”

  “Well, Mike’s death, of course,” Garner said. His pale blue eyes didn’t blink. “It’s all a tragic business. Mike Freehafer kills my Cynthia. Then he too dies. Like me, Savannah lost the one who matters most to her.”

  Savannah was done with Mike, Duane nearly snapped, but he bit down on the words before they could escape. But Garner…yes, Garner could see how he’d nettled Duane.

  “Savannah was such a pleasant girl,” Garner said in a musing voice. “She didn’t deserve to be put through the trauma of talking to me.” Garner gave Duane a reproachful frown. “You really shouldn’t have done that, Short Pump. Made her talk to me. It could prove harmful to her.”

  A chill gripped him. Duane glanced over at Cartwright, but it was as though Garner had merely commented on the weather. Couldn’t the sheriff see what Garner was saying? Couldn’t he make out the threat implicit in Garner’s words?

  Duane was sweating. He had to remain in command of his emotions. He cleared his throat with difficulty, shifted in his chair.

  “Mr. Garner,” he said. “Last night you told me you’d be seeing Savannah soon.” He paused, letting that sink in. Letting Cartwright think about it. That was, if Cartwright was actually listening.

  Duane went on. “Can you explain how you knew about Savannah? Her name? How you knew about me? For that matter, can you explain what you meant when you said you’d be ‘seeing Savannah soon’?”

  Duane glanced at the sheriff, who for the first time seemed interested. Interested, Duane thought, and a trifle suspicious.

  Just don’t push it.

  Garner sighed, leaned back in his chair. “What you say is true, Short Pump. I did ask—”

  “My name is Duane.”

  Garner smiled. “Of course. As I was explaining, I did mention Savannah last night. And I certainly won’t deny having inquired about Mike’s acquaintances.”

  Cartwright’s voice had an edge. “And why would you do that, Mr. Garner?”

  But Garner merely shrugged one shoulder, picked at a scar in the tabletop. “I suppose I should have left it alone. But Cynthia—” He glanced at Cartwright. “You know about my daughter, Sheriff?”

  Cartwright didn’t answer.

  “She was all I had,” Garner said. “My wife died years ago. Breast cancer. Cynthia and I developed a powerful bond.” He smiled sadly. “I still find myself thinking she’ll come skipping through my front door, even though she hasn’t skipped anywhere since she was a little girl.”

  Duane shot a look at Cartwright to see if he was buying it, and dammit, it appeared that he was. Were the sheriff’s eyes a little misty? Hell, Duane thought, even the skinny ginger-haired deputy looked like he might break down bawling.

  Duane glared at Garner. The con artist.

  Garner resumed. “Being home was unbearable, so I couldn’t remain there, not this soon after Cynthia’s death. Too many memories…”

  Academy Award, Duane thought. Fucking Oscar winner.

  “I don’t have any family to speak of,” Garner continued. “Just my late wife’s parents, and they’re both in a nursing home in Peoria. So,” he said, leaning forward and interlacing his fingers, “I booked a cabin in Lakeview. It’s only two hours south of Chicago. And I won’t deny the place has been on my mind a great deal since my daughter’s death.” Garner paused. “Do you have children, Sheriff Cartwright?”

  Cartwright’s expression was unreadable. “Three.”

  “Any daughters?”

  A nod. “Two of them.”

  “Cherish them, Sheriff Cartwright.”

  Good Lord, Duane thought. What a load of shit.

  But Cartwright was gazing steadily at Garner. “I will.”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake,” Duane half-shouted.

  Cartwright looked like he might gun Duane down. “Mr. McKidd, your five minutes are over.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Duane said. “He tells you some sob story about his daughter, and you guys start swapping stories about how much you love your kids—”

  From across the table there came a trio of low popping sounds, Garner’s knuckles cracking as he clenched his fists.

  Go on, Duane told himself. Make him mad.

  “Mr. McKidd,” Cartwright was saying, “I’m going to say this one more time—”

  “—but what he’s really doing, Sheriff,” Duane interrupted, “is diverting your attention from the truth.”

  “And that is?” Garner asked, through teeth that Duane saw were now gnashing together. And weren’t the cheekbones widening, the chin jutting out farther than before?

  Cartwright started toward Duane, but it was Garner he addressed. “You don’t need to answer. This individual’s about to get himself jailed for disorderly conduct.”

  “Disorderly conduct?” Duane laughed. “How about murdering seven people, ripping their—”

  “That’s enough, Mr. McKidd!”

  “—guts out and chewing them up and wounding four more—”

  Cartwright’s hand clamped his shoulder, squeezed.

  But Garner’s face was definitely changing, the left cheekbone quivering now, the blue eyes tinged with yellow.

  “—and if you let him out now, Sheriff Cartwright, he’ll go after Savannah, and her blood—”

  “Goddammit, McKidd!” Hauling him out of the chair.

  “—will be on you. Hers and her little boy’s.”

  Muscling him toward the door, Cartwright shouted, “Get out of my jail, McKidd. Right the hell now.”

  Duane turned, gestured toward Garner. “Would you look at him, for God’s sake? His face is…”

  Cartwright turned, but now Garner looked just as he’d been before. A little sweatier perhaps, his skin slightly darker, though that could have been a trick of the light.

  It wasn’t possible!

  Jaw set, Cartwright seized Duane’s collar, opened the door and thrust him through. But before Duane righted himself, he heard Garner say, “Don’t worry, Short Pump. Savannah and Jake are safe.”

  “No guarantees about me, huh?” Duane called as he was hustled toward the exit.

  It wasn’t until Cartwright had practically thrown Duane through the front door that it occurred to him to wonder how Garner had learned the name of Savannah’s boy.

  Barb listened to their story, and when she spoke it was usually to clarify a point. Oftentimes she brought up things that neither of them had considered.

  Duane tightened as he realized he hadn’t seen Jake for several minutes. Barb noticed him looking around and nodded over her shoulder. “Jake’s in the back. Playing games on his mom’s phone.”

  Duane’s muscles untensed.

  “Is that all?” Barb asked w
hen Savannah had finished.

  “Isn’t it enough?” Duane said.

  Savannah frowned. “Let me guess. You’re going to tell us we’re imagining everything and that we’ve made a grieving father’s life more difficult by harassing him.”

  “I believe you,” Barb said.

  Duane stared at her. He glanced at Savannah, who’d apparently been rendered as speechless as he was.

  Savannah shook her head. “But how can you when it’s so crazy?”

  “Would you rather I didn’t?”

  Savannah ventured an incredulous smile. “I know how I’d feel if someone told me a story like that.”

  Duane scratched his neck uneasily. “We’re happy you believe us, but I think what Savannah’s trying to say—”

  “I know what she’s trying to say,” Barb said, “because she said it. We don’t need you to interpret for us.”

  Duane felt his balls shrink.

  Barb looked at Savannah, said, “Let me tell you a story.” She said to Duane, “You want to grab a couple stools?”

  Duane strode briskly over to the corner, where several rustic-looking wooden stools surrounded a matching table. He snagged a couple stools, and almost dropped them when he realized how heavy they were. The kind of object you needed two hands to carry. But he’d already committed to toting one in each hand and wouldn’t relent now. Not with Savannah watching, and certainly not with Barb watching. As he often did when he was with Barb, Duane felt his manhood threatened.

  Barely keeping down a groan of effort, Duane made it to the counter and set the stools down. Savannah took hers with a muttered thank-you, but Barb was watching him impishly. Or as impishly as a six-foot-two woman could watch someone.

  “Well,” he said, sitting. “You were saying something about a story?”

  “Damn near threw your back out, didn’t you?” Barb said.

  “I managed.”

  He glanced at Savannah, who looked like she was trying not to smile.

  “What?” he said.

  “Nothing,” she said lightly.

  “You guys ever been to Shadeland?” Barb asked.

  “Spent four years at Western Indiana University,” Duane said. He shrugged. “Okay, four and a half.”

  Barb said, “You know the little town to the south of it?”

  “Burnettsville?” he said. “Sure I do. There’s a nice little restaurant there. Roberts’s. Great prime rib.”

  “That’s about all there is in Burnettsville,” Barb said. “That, a post office and a gas station.”

  “Don’t forget the flashing yellow light,” Duane added.

  “I haven’t been there,” Savannah said.

  “You’re not missing much,” Barb said. “But there’s an interesting legend about the place. It involves the ancient Iroquois.”

  “Hold on,” Duane said. “You’re not talking about that thing at Peaceful Valley, are you?”

  God, he hoped not. A year ago there had been accounts of a massacre at the Peaceful Valley Nature Preserve, a new state park. Talk of deaths in the hundreds, whispers of bizarre creatures, and rumors about a government cover-up had surrounded Shadeland like a poisonous cloud.

  But Barb was shaking her head. “Not that. But the Peaceful Valley incident only serves as further evidence of my point.”

  “What is your point?” Savannah asked.

  “Not everything’s explainable,” Barb said.

  Savannah made to get off her stool. “Maybe I should check on Jake.”

  “Sit,” Barb said. “Your boy’s fine and you know it. But you came here hoping I’d alleviate your fears, and instead you’re about to have them confirmed. My advice is to suck it up and listen. Ignoring what’s in front of you won’t make a bad situation any better.”

  Chastened, Savannah sank onto her stool.

  Barb resumed, leaning forward on the glass counter. “This doesn’t relate to your wolf story—at least not directly. But it does get filed in the same general area: the Great Unknown.

  “The town of Burnettsville is nothing more than a scattering of country houses that share the same zip code. At the last census there were six hundred people there, give or take, and I suspect the population was much the same back in the time of the Iroquois. A dwelling here, a dwelling there. Plenty of room for everybody.” Barb’s eyes widened meaningfully. “Except, plenty of room isn’t always good. Not when things go bad.”

  Duane shifted uncomfortably. His jeans were pulled too far down on his ass. He was pretty sure his crack was showing. There weren’t any other people in Callahan’s Collectibles at the moment, but if anyone did stop in, they’d glimpse a hell of a plumber’s butt. He resisted the urge to stand and tug his jeans up. But something told him Barb would be annoyed at having her story interrupted.

  She resumed. “One winter—this was half a millennium ago, long before the area was settled by the white man—the temperatures sank to unbearable lows.”

  “How unbearable?” Savannah asked.

  “I wasn’t there, dear, but according to the folks at the university, the temperature dipped as low as seventy below zero.”

  Duane whistled.

  “It was so cold,” Barb continued, “that many Iroquois froze to death before they could return to their dwellings.”

  Savannah looked appalled. “It got cold that quickly?”

  Barb nodded. “That’s how the professors at WIU could measure it. A drastic change like that leaves its mark on the landscape.”

  Duane had no idea how a cold snap could affect the terrain in a way that could be measured half a millennium later, but opted to say nothing about his doubts. Barb didn’t seem in the mood to debate the minutiae of the ancient Indiana climate.

  Barb drummed her fingers on the counter. Her nails were cut short, Duane noticed. “It got cold in the surrounding areas too. Shadeland, Ravanna. Even here in Lakeview. Lots of folks died because they couldn’t keep warm enough. Especially the elderly and the very young.”

  Savannah’s face clouded.

  Barb said, “The food ran out in lots of places—most scientists believe the cold spell lasted nearly three weeks—and there were casualties all over. Roughly forty percent of the Iroquois living in what’s now known as Lakeview expired from exposure or malnourishment. There were even rumors of cannibalism.”

  Savannah raised her hand like a kid in elementary school. “Can I check on Jake?”

  “Your attention span always this short?” Barb said. “Put your hand down.”

  Duane wished he could escape to the back office as well. He didn’t like to think of weather that frigid. He hated the winter as it was. But negative seventy? That was obscene. The only time he recalled hearing numbers like that bandied about were in a novel about the failed Shackleton Expedition.

  “You still with me?” Barb asked him.

  Duane said, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You had that slack expression on your face,” Barb said. “Slacker than usual, I mean.”

  Duane crossed his arms, scowling.

  “As I was saying,” Barb went on, “there were losses all over the area. Losses all over the Midwest. But nowhere was the death toll more severe than in Burnettsville.”

  “Worse than forty percent?” Savannah said.

  “Everybody died,” Barb said. “For a fifteen-mile radius, not a single soul survived.”

  Duane said, “That’s easily explained. The whole community got together in one spot, and the food ran out.”

  “Most never left their dwellings,” Barb said.

  “How could anybody possibly—”

  “The Iroquois were a highly advanced people. They kept records. It’s not like we’re talking about ancient Mesopotamia here.”

  Not having any opinions on ancient Mesopotamia, Duane remained silent.

>   “The tribes from the surrounding areas sent out scouting parties. The Algonquins. The Cherokee. The other Iroquois tribes.” Barb paused. “You two eat lunch yet?”

  “I think we can take it,” Duane said.

  Barb nodded. “In some of the dwellings, the dead were missing their skins.”

  Savannah’s nose wrinkled. “They were skinned?”

  “I didn’t say they were skinned,” Barb corrected. “I said they were missing their skins.”

  “What’s the difference?” Duane asked.

  “The difference is that something ate their skin off. Like a parasite or maybe a microorganism.”

  “Gross,” Savannah said.

  “Other corpses were found in many pieces, as if scattered by an explosion of some sort.”

  “Natural gas?” Duane said.

  “You’re not getting it,” Barb said. “These bodies were found in various places. They looked like they’d been destroyed from the inside out.”

  “Hold on,” Duane said. “Are you implying it was werewolves that did those things to the Iroquois people?”

  Barb arched an eyebrow. “Did anybody’s flesh rot off at the bonfire?”

  “No, but—”

  “Anybody burst apart like he’d just swallowed a grenade?”

  Duane fell silent.

  “What I’m doing is drawing a parallel. No one could explain what happened during the deep freeze. But it did happen. Everyone who’s studied it independently has come to the same conclusion.”

  “They couldn’t have embellished it?” Savannah asked.

  Barb turned her pitiless gaze on her. “Are you embellishing what happened at the bonfire?”

  “Why would we—”

  “Why would the Iroquois make up a story about a desolated settlement?”

  “Barb’s got a point,” Duane said.

  “I don’t need your support,” Barb said. “What I need is for you two dolts to shut up and listen so we can come up with a plan.”

  Savannah folded her arms. “God, Barb. Do you have to be so mean?”

  “Yes,” Barb said. “That’s the only way you two will appreciate the severity of the situation.” Barb looked at Savannah. “You and Jake are moving in with me, effective immediately.”