Contamination (Books 0-3)

by T. W. Piperbrook

  “Howard, what’d you do, man?” he kidded, punching the stocky officer on the arm. “Oh shit, man, I didn’t know you were hurt. Are you all right?”

  “It’s not funny, Mickey,” Dan scolded him, “Howard is lucky to be alive.”

  “Is Frank really dead?”

  “Yes, he is. We should wait for Sheriff Turner before we do anything.”

  The red-haired officer peered over their shoulders into the cell, catching a glimpse of the blue blanket. Dan had placed it back over the body, both to preserve the evidence and to avoid looking at it again. Over the past few years, there had been a few gruesome deaths in St. Matthews, but nothing to this extent.

  Mickey headed off into the locker room.

  “I’ll get the camera,” he said.

  Howard sat behind the wooden desk in the room, applying pressure to his wound. They had raided the emergency kit in the station and wrapped his arm with gauze and a bandage while waiting for the paramedics. Dan was sure the man would need stitches.

  Frank had sliced into a piece of the man’s upper bicep, presumably with his nails. Dan struggled to figure out how the prisoner had done so much damage—especially without a weapon.

  “I should call my wife,” Dan said. “She’s probably worried.”

  “Why don’t you go home, man—have dinner with the family,” Howard offered.

  “Absolutely not. I’ll tell her not to wait up.”

  Dan retrieved his phone and walked into the corridor. The sound of his footsteps bounced off the station walls as he dialed the number. His wife picked up on the first ring.

  “Dan, where are you?” Julie said. “I thought you’d be home already.”

  “We had an accident at the station, honey. Howard’s been hurt. He’ll be ok—but there is an incident that I need to deal with.”

  “Oh my God. I knew it. Will you be home soon?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “In fact, I’m pretty sure it will be a while.”

  “I’ll wait up for you. I can heat up dinner when you get back.”

  Dan smiled, feeling a sense of relief at the sound of her voice. Howard was still alive. Julie and Quinn were safe at home, miles away from the carnage he had just witnessed. Things could be much worse.

  “That sounds great. If you guys get hungry, feel free to start without me,” he said. Dan doubted he would have much of an appetite.

  He hung up the cellphone and stared at his reflection in the glass. His adrenaline was still flowing, and he tried to steady his hands. The ambulance would be here soon, and they would need to assess the crime scene. He tried to regain his composure. From somewhere outside, a car door slammed shut. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and adjusted his hat.

  Even before he had a visual, Dan heard his boss breathing from the parking lot outside. A few seconds later, the door swung open with a crash, and Sheriff Turner’s massive figure filled the entrance. He lumbered down the hall towards Dan, his massive legs shaking the ground beneath him.

  “Is Howard ok?” he asked.

  “I think he’ll be fine,” Dan assured him. “But he’ll need stitches.”

  The Sheriff muttered something and wiped away a stream of sweat from beneath his cap. His short white hair was matted into clumps, and his thick black eyebrows quivered with worry. Labored breaths wracked his body. Dan figured it had probably been a while since the man had moved so fast. By all accounts, his boss was sorely out of shape. However, his intentions were some of the purest that Dan had ever known.

  Sheriff Turner had taken over the position from Bill Turner, his father, who had retired after forty years on the force. The family had occupied St. Matthews for generations, each member holding a career in public service. Almost anywhere the sheriff went he was greeted by warmth and respect. He once joked that his body belonged to the townsfolk. Dan thought he should have been a politician in another life.

  The sheriff’s red cheeks puffed in front of him, and he resumed walking.

  “Thank God he’s all right,” he said. “Where the hell are the medics?”

  It was after 9 o’clock when Dan finally left the police station. At that point, there wasn’t much more he could do. Howard had been taken to the hospital to be stitched up, insisting that his co-workers stay behind. Dan had completed the necessary paperwork; the three remaining officers had documented the scene.

  Frank’s mangled body had been taken to the morgue shortly after. The coroner, Jonas Cutler, hadn’t offered much of an explanation. Even with an autopsy, he explained, it would be impossible to gauge the man’s motives. For now, he was chalking it up to a stomach full of alcohol and a bad temper.

  Dan pulled out of the parking lot. He contemplated calling his wife. Given the late hour, he decided against it. In the event his family had gone to sleep, he didn’t want to wake them—though he was certain Julie would be up, waiting for him.

  As he sped home, he tried to picture the plate of re-heated potatoes and ham that awaited him, but only succeeding in conjuring up images of Frank’s missing face. He blinked hard a few times, trying to get a grip on his stomach. Work was work, and home was home. He kept reminding himself of that fact. A few minutes later, he pulled into the driveway.

  The Lowery residence was a quaint, single-story home situated on a slightly wooded lot. The front lower half was comprised of red brick, the upper made of white wood panels. Two elm trees sat in the front yard, providing a nice contrast to the desert backdrop. On the right side of the house was a two-car garage.

  Dan felt above the visor for the garage remote, and then reconsidered, parking the cruiser where he had pulled in.

  He’d leave the garage doors closed, just in case they were asleep.

  He exited the vehicle, locking the car door and starting up the walkway. A dim light was on in the dining room. He felt a sense of relief wash over him. It was good to be home.

  3

  HOWARD WINCED AS THE NURSE threaded the first stitch. The pain was actually quite bearable, but he wasn’t a fan of needles. He looked away and concentrated on a diagram on the wall. A row of letters and numbers lined the poster, each varying in size and shape.

  “Can you read all of them?” The nurse smiled at him. She was a cute blonde, probably no more than twenty-eight, if he had to guess.

  “Let’s see, A, F, G. Yep—got ‘em all.” He grinned, flexing his bicep.

  “You’ll have to stay still, sir.”

  “No problem, ma’am,” he said.

  Howard thought back to the last time he had been in the hospital, back in Sacramento. That was when he had received the gunshot wound to his calf. Now, that was some scary shit. This is nothing, he reminded himself. Nothing at all.

  He should’ve known better than to go near Frank’s cell. He’d known something was going to happen tonight.

  He closed his left eye and tried reading the letters on the chart backwards. He realized that the patients who took the test were probably farther away, but it felt good to practice nonetheless. Howard was on a constant quest for perfection, always striving to keep his mind and body active.

  He closed both eyes as the needle wove in and out of his arm. He could feel a steady pinching even though he had been given an anesthetic. He pictured his arm slowly coming back together, and tried to dispel the image of Frank’s face coming apart.

  “All set!” the nurse said, standing up proudly.

  Howard wondered how many stitches she had given before. From the look in her eyes, she was quite impressed with the work she had done.

  “Looks good!” he confirmed, but figured he wouldn’t have known the difference either way.

  The nurse beamed and began to put away her supplies.

  “Hey, if you ever get bored, I work at the precinct downtown,” he said. “You should stop by. Ask for Howard.”

  “Definitely!” She smiled, but her blue eyes remained on the equipment. A few seconds later, she handed him a sheet of paper. “All of your post-care inst
ructions are listed here on the bottom. We’ll see you in two weeks to remove the stitches.”

  Howard thanked her and slid off the chair. He retrieved his cap from the table, and exited into the hallway.

  The emergency room waiting area was surprisingly quiet. Two rows of red plastic chairs lined the walls, all of them empty but for a few magazines that had been left on the seats. Behind the front desk, an older woman sat with her back to the room, scribbling away on some paperwork.

  A television hung from the ceiling, displaying the local newscast. The sound was barely audible, but Howard could make out the story from the tagline below. The reporter was covering the town’s yearly festival. Several residents had planted a variety of trees on the center green. The caption switched a few seconds later to an alert on a recall of ground beef.

  “I could go for a burger,” he mumbled to himself, wishing he were hungry.

  He exited through the automatic doors and back into the night.

  Howard drove aimlessly for a few hours, rounding the streets of St. Matthews in the police cruiser. He should probably go home, but home felt like the wrong place to be. For a second, he considered calling Dan, perhaps stopping in for some ham and potatoes, but thought better of it.

  There was no time for that now.

  A glimmer of pain rippled up his arm, and he loosened his grip on the steering wheel.

  For a Friday night, the streets were unusually empty. Normally, he would find himself stuck behind some drunk who was driving far less than the speed limit, painfully aware of the cruiser behind him. Tonight, he was greeted by nothing more than the traffic lights and an occasional foot traveler.

  Howard circled the town several times before he realized where he was headed. He pulled into a small side street tucked in the commercial center of town and turned off his headlights. A row of brick buildings loomed overhead, the adobe cracked and worn from both time and lack of concern. A few patrons were standing in the alleyway, but quickly dispersed when they saw the patrol car. He noticed that one of them pointed in his direction. It looked like he mouthed the officer’s name.

  Above them, a dingy sign garnished one of the doorways, adding a faint orange glow to the alley. Howard looked up at it. The Down Under.

  Normally, a trip to the bar would have been under the pretext of violence—an alcohol-fueled fight, a gun scare, or perhaps a drug overdose. Tonight, he had been drawn to the place for another reason.

  On any given night, Frank would have still been here, raising his glass to anything that struck his fancy, and raising his fists at everything else. Howard closed his eyes, breathing in the smell of warm beer and stale urine. If he listened intently enough, he was almost certain he could hear the dead man’s voice, yelling from inside.

  After a few minutes, he opened his eyes and stared out the window. A few of the locals had gathered in front of the bar and were pointing and whispering at him. He sat upright, instinctively feeling for his pistol.

  One of them held a bottle in his hand and staggered a few steps toward the vehicle. Howard recognized him as one of the locals—Nathan Heid. “What’s the matter, you pigs come to arrest another one of us? One man isn’t enough for the night? You fucking assholes.”

  Howard winced at the insult. He could easily arrest the man on several charges, but tonight he had much more important things to do. Nathan leered at him, preening a scruffy white beard. “Yeah, that’s right. You got nothin’ to say now, huh?”

  The others cheered, laughing and holding up their bottles.

  Howard started the engine and put the car into drive, trying his best to appear unfazed. He sped off down the alley, feeling utterly alone.

  4

  DAN STARTED UP THE WALKWAY, and then stopped. He glanced back at the police cruiser, which was immersed in shadow at the foot of the driveway. The motion light over his garage must have gone out. He cursed silently and walked back towards the vehicle, intending to pull it into the garage. From the looks of it, Julie and Quinn were both still up, so he wouldn’t be disturbing them.

  He hopped back in the car and tapped the overhead garage remote. The door ascended, and he flicked on his headlights. Inside, a neat array of garden tools hung on the walls—shovels, rakes, pitchforks—along with neatly stacked bags of potting soil and plant fertilizer on the floor. His wife had always had a green thumb. If Dan so much as looked at a plant, it would disintegrate.

  He pulled the cruiser into the garage, next to his wife’s Subaru Outback. It appeared she hadn’t been out today. Normally he could tell by the position of the vehicle. From his job on the force, Dan had inherited an eye for detail. He was often expected to recall facts and conversations in his reports, and he prided himself on his accuracy.

  Dan turned off the headlights and tapped the garage remote. He heard the door descend behind him, and checked quickly in his rearview to make sure no one had slipped inside. You could never be too careful. Especially after the night he’d just had.

  A few months back, he had responded to a burglary call just outside the city center. Apparently, the suspect had waited outside an elderly woman’s home, and then followed her inside through the garage. The perpetrator had then bound and gagged her, before making off with all her valuables. The poor woman had been so shaken up that she had moved into a group home shortly afterwards. Dan couldn’t blame her. It was a shame what the world had come to.

  He exited the vehicle and made his way to the door. He could hear the television from inside. He turned the handle and stepped into the kitchen, expecting Julie to be there, waiting for him. Instead, he was met with silence. He placed his keys on the countertop.

  “Julie, I’m home!” he called out.

  The kitchen was in disarray. Pots and pans were strewn across the countertop. A cutting board spilled over with potato skins, and wet towels were draped over the edge of the sink. Julie was normally a neat freak, cleaning her dishes almost immediately after she used them. This wasn’t like her. His gaze continued down the counter.

  The microwave door had been left open, revealing a splattering of food on the inside. A display of knives was turned sideways next to it. One of them—the largest—was missing. Dan started forward and felt his foot hit a roll of paper towels that had unraveled on the floor.

  “Julie?”

  Through the kitchen, past an arched doorway, he had a partial view of the dining room. Although the chandelier was lit, it cast only a dull aura over the table, as if the dimmer had been placed on the lowest setting. His wife sat at the head of the table at the end closest to him, her back turned.

  “You ok? I’m sorry I’m late.”

  She didn’t answer. Dan felt his heart start to hammer behind his ribcage, and his police instincts kicked into gear. He imagined the worst—that someone was waiting for him on the other side of the dining room, forcing his wife to remain silent. From his position, he could only see half of the table. Quinn was nowhere in sight.

  His fingertips grazed the gun, but he didn’t remove it. Not yet.

  He crept past the refrigerator, hugging the side of the room. Slowly, the dining room revealed itself to him. The other chairs were empty; the table was set for three. A whiff of steam rose from the plate in front of Julie, indicating that she had recently heated the food. She was alone.

  “Honey, did Quinn go to bed already?” he whispered.

  Her neck twitched slightly at the words, and he could see her chest rise and fall. Whatever had happened—was happening—she was alive.

  He weaved around her chair until her face came into view, still fingering his holster. Her long brown hair was tied in a ponytail, but several strands had made their way out of the elastic and across her face. Her round lips were pursed, and her high cheeks held a faint red glow. Her eyes were closed, and her hands were folded in her lap.

  “Are you asleep?”

  The TV blared from the other room, but his wife did not make a sound. A few bites were missing from the plate in front of her. The
fork was on the floor by her feet.

  “Honey…” he tried again, softly.

  A bang erupted from down the hall. Dan jumped and withdrew his gun. There were two doors beyond the dining room, one on either side. The one on the left was open, and he could see their queen-size bed through the crack. The door across the hall—the one leading to Quinn’s bedroom—was shut.

  Dan edged sideways down the hallway, keeping one eye on his wife. From the other room, the TV went to commercial, increasing in volume. An announcer spoke of the revolutionary power of a new toilet spray. The rest of the house maintained its silence.

  He reached the door and pressed his ear against it. A thin scratching sound emanated from the other side, a few feet below his head. It was about where his daughter’s shoulders would be.

  He cupped one hand to the door. “Quinn…are you in there?”

  Boom! The door wobbled as something crashed against it, knocking his hand from the frame. Someone began to pound on the other side, and he heard the person whimpering. It sounded like his daughter, but he couldn’t be sure. Dan held the doorknob, turning it slightly to test it. The door was locked. He looked down at the keyhole, but no key was present. It had been locked from the hallway.

  His eyes darted back to the dining room table. His wife had not moved, but her eyes were now open. She stared at him vacantly, her lips still pursed together. Her pupils had turned black.

  Something glimmered from the table, next to her plate. It was the key to his daughter’s room.

  Dan made a lunge for the key, and then stopped short. His wife sat motionless, piercing him with hollow eyes. He wondered if she was able to see him—to recognize the man standing before her. Everything about her was horribly wrong.

  “Julie, our daughter is locked in her room. We need to get her out,” he said. “Do you hear me?”