What Vengeance Comes

by Strong, Anthony M.

  As he drove he scanned the road ahead, his eyes drifting to the dark woods on either side of the vehicle. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but somewhere out there was a monster, something big, powerful, and angry enough to inflict the kind of carnage he saw at the Pump and Go. Even as he concentrated on driving he could still see the body of Benny Townsend, his arms and legs spread wide, the rest of him nothing more than a mass of torn flesh and bone. It sickened him.

  He turned his thoughts to Nancy, doing his best to push the maudlin away with a dose of cheer. She was the one good thing in all of this, an angel that had come into his life when he least expected it, and for that he was glad. Heaven knows she had enough reasons not to get involved with him, especially after the way he’d treated her all those years ago.

  Not that any of that mattered right now. She was vulnerable. She needed him as much as he needed her. He wondered if either of them would be able to cope with what was happening if it weren’t for the other.

  He was still musing on this when he reached the town, his patrol car moving down Main Street at a snail’s pace. It would be good for people to see that he was there if they needed him. Not that there was a sign of anyone. It seemed that word had gotten around about the attacks and the entire town had locked themselves in their homes for the night. Even the County Line Saloon seemed empty, Sunday night or not, with only two cars pulled up out front, and he was pretty sure one of those was Ed’s own vehicle.

  There was no doubt about it. The town was on self-imposed lockdown, and it felt weird, like all the inhabitants had been whisked away, or abducted by aliens.

  He knew how they felt. Fear of the unknown was a powerful force. For months after his mother’s death he was convinced that something was going to come for him, rip him apart the same way his mother was eviscerated. He lay awake at night, cowering under the covers, waiting for the bogeyman to get him, while down below, on the first floor, his father became obsessed with finding the killer. The bogeyman never came, and his father never found the peace he strived for, instead filling boxes with police reports and crazy theories. If the old man were still alive these latest killings, so similar, would surely spark a renewed bout of obsession, and more crackpot ideas about the killer. They weren’t related of course, that much Decker was sure of, at least not directly, but even he could not ignore the similarities. It could not be the same animal, but it could be a descendant, the offspring of whatever beast perpetrated that horrendous act so long ago. If that were the case, maybe there would be something in those old notebooks and files, something he could use. Even though he had no desire to dredge up a past he’d spent too long trying to forget, Decker knew what he must do. He swung the cruiser around and drove in the direction of his house.

  38

  NANCY CASSIDY SAT on the sofa with the TV on low in the background and a cup of cocoa on the coffee table in front of her. On the screen a TV reporter rehashed the events of the past few days, describing the recent killings with zeal probably better reserved for covering the church Fete, or July fourth festivities.

  Nancy was only half listening, her mind was on other things. Like John Decker, and their sudden renewed relationship. She wondered if he really meant what he said, if he truly was going to stick around this time. Despite the passing years, the pain of his leaving for college without her never quite went away. Not that it would have been easy to go with him. Her father had passed away the year before John left town, and then, without anyone else around to help, her mother increasingly relied on her to help out in the Diner. Still, she would have found a way. But he didn’t want her around, he made that very clear, and so she stayed in Wolf Haven, nursed a broken heart, and eventually married Lenny Snider, who was, according to her mother, a better fit for her, despite the fact that he drank too much and was not opposed to landing a quick backhander if she said the wrong thing. The day he finally walked out on her she celebrated with a bottle of wine. Now here she was, five years later, coming full circle with the man she wished she had married all those years ago, the man who should have been Taylor’s father, but still a nagging fear remained despite his assurances. Decker still harbored some demons. He went through so much between the death of his mother and the descent of his father into obsessive madness that he could hardly avoid that, but it seemed there was more. He hadn’t told her everything, but she knew enough to know that he didn’t come back to Wolf Haven because he missed his hometown. He was running when he left, and he was still running when he came back.

  So where did she fit in? Nancy wasn’t sure yet, but she would need to find out soon, because she could feel herself falling for him all over again, and that scared her, just a little.

  39

  THE GARAGE WAS A MESS. Decker almost tripped twice fighting his way past junk that he probably should get rid of. Most of it came from his parent’s old house. Up until a few years ago it was in storage, but since his garage was mostly empty, it seemed to make more sense to move it there so that he could sort through it and decide what to keep and what to consign to the trash. Now all he needed to do was find the time, and the inclination.

  He moved several pieces of old furniture and finally came across what he was looking for. A battered three-drawer filing cabinet containing old case files from years before. He opened the filing cabinet and flicked through the tightly packed manila folders until he located the one he was looking for. He pulled the file free and went back to his study, placing it next to a dusty brown document storage box sitting on his desk.

  He opened the file and leafed through the yellowing sheets of paper within. The first sheet was a police report. He recognized the face that peered back at him from an old photograph paper clipped to it. It was his mother, looking just as she had the day she died. In the doorway behind her hovered a small unrecognizable figure, mostly in shadow. He knew who that child was, because he remembered standing there and watching his father take the photo. He examined the image, a sense of loss overwhelming him. His mother looked so happy, a broad smile upon her eternally youthful face. Less than a month later she would be dead.

  There were other photos too, tucked in behind the paperwork. His father did not take these. They were the handiwork of a forensic photographer. He made a conscious effort not to look at those, for he knew what they would contain. It had taken several years of therapy to overcome the grisly sight of his mother’s ripped up body and he harbored no desire to revisit that particular hell.

  He moved on past the crime scene pictures, to a police report scrawled in scratchy untidy handwriting, probably that of a deputy, and read it. There was nothing new in the document, nothing he did not already know. Certainly nothing that could help him now.

  Next he turned his attention to the storage box. Until a few hours ago he hadn’t laid eyes on this box in years. It sat tucked away on a shelf in the attic. Inside were his father’s notebooks and papers, most of them from the time his mother was killed, up until his father’s death several years later. They were a sad record of a broken man’s descent into paranoia and despair, and Decker could not bring himself to view them – until now.

  He lifted the lid from the box, ignoring the musty, dank odor that rose from inside, and looked within.

  Inside were several spiral bound notebooks. He recognized them as the same type he used to take to school, but he knew these would not be filled with English homework and Math problems.

  He pulled out the top one and opened it, peeling back the cover. His father’s handwriting jumped off the page, faded but still readable. He scanned the text, read a few lines, but there was nothing of any use, just the ramblings of a fevered mind pushed beyond breaking. In some places the writing was barely legible, but what he could decipher was nothing more than wild accusations and crackpot theories.

  He flipped through a couple more pages, but it was more of the same. He wondered what he was doing. The box, and the notepads it contained, were bad news. All he was doing was dredging up a past he spent
years struggling to make peace with. Decker still recalled what it was like after his mother’s death, and he remembered these notebooks. His father would scrawl in them constantly, almost automatically, jotting down whatever random thoughts came upon him. At first the notepads were a way to cope with the loss, a suggestion of the town doctor, that he write down his feelings, but they became so much more.

  Decker sighed. This was useless. He should have known better than to think there was anything here. There was no connection between what happened then and what was occurring now.

  He picked up the notebook with the intention of dropping it back into the box, but as he went to close it his eyes picked out two words amid the jumble of nonsense, words that jumped off the page because they were even crazier than the rest of the scribbled rantings.

  Loup Garou

  Decker stared at the page, stunned.

  He didn’t believe for one second that a monster born of folklore and superstition killed his mother back then, but apparently the idea crossed his father’s mind, more than once too. When Decker flipped through the remaining pages of the notepad he picked out the words a dozen more times.

  It was ridiculous of course. The Loup Garou was a good story, nothing more. A spin on the classic werewolf, a person could summon the beast through witchcraft, becoming the wolf for up to one hundred and one days, often to reap vengeance on those they perceived as having wronged them.

  Decker closed the notepad and returned it to the box. This was a futile waste of time. Whatever answers he hoped to find in those moldy, yellowed papers were not there, only old questions, and right now there were more pressing issues to resolve. He could wallow in the ghosts of the past some other time.

  He picked up the box lid, intent on returning the box to where he’d found it. He was about to drop the lid back into place, when his eye caught something he hadn’t noticed previously. Pushed down the side of the box, wedged between the inner wall of the container and the old notepads and papers, was a small rectangular envelope.

  He plucked it out and looked at it for a second, turning it over in his hands. The envelope was decades old, much like everything else in the storage box. There was no writing on it, nothing to indicate what might be inside, but it was thick. His curiosity peaked, Decker examined the flap. It didn’t seem to be sealed, but the years of damp conditions had moistened the glue just enough to keep it closed. He pushed a nail under the flap and pried it back, careful not to damage the contents inside. He reached in, his fingers closing over brittle paper, and pulled out a wad of browned slips with faded text.

  Newsprint.

  He looked at the fragile slips, suddenly realizing what they were – newspaper clippings. He laid them out on the table, handling them with a gentle care borne from years dealing with crime scenes and evidence, then sat back and cast his eyes over them.

  The clippings were from about the time of his mother’s death, something he confirmed from a dateline on one of the articles, but to his surprise, they were not about his mother. Instead, they described other killings, all with a similar modus operandi, and all from towns within a fifty-mile radius of Wolf Haven. In the margin of one clipping, dated about two weeks after the attack on his mother, were written two words in his father’s scratchy handwriting. He read the sentence, his heart racing.

  ‘Same beast?’

  So his father thought that whatever mauled his mother had also attacked other people. What’s more, it didn’t appear the creature responsible was ever caught or killed.

  The similarities to what was happening now were too much to ignore. Still, he had no idea how any of this helped him track down and catch the thing, and frankly, his father’s conclusion that the killer was some kind of werewolf didn’t help the situation. He couldn’t call in the State Police or FBI with a story like that, not unless he wanted a free vacation in a padded room.

  A rumble of thunder shook the house. The light above the table flickered, bathing the room in alternating light and dark. The weather was growing worse. He could hear the rain pounding on the windows, the wind catching a gate somewhere, slamming it back and forth.

  The storm was on its way, and somewhere out in the howling rain, amid the pine trees and brush, a ruthless killer ran free. He had work to do, and not much time to do it, but not right now, not tonight. Tonight all he wanted was to feel the warmth of Nancy’s body next to his, her lips as she kissed him, her touch as she held him.

  He gathered the clippings together and returned them to the envelope, then placed it back in the box. There was nothing here of much use, at least not right now. Whatever truths were hidden in the old documents would have to wait for another time. He picked up his car keys, threw on a jacket, and left the house.

  40

  DECKER PULLED UP to Nancy’s house, steering the cruiser past Cassidy’s Diner and bringing the vehicle as close to her door as he could, before putting his hat on and making a dash for the shelter of the front porch.

  He reached out to ring the doorbell, but there was no need. Nancy opened the door and pulled him in, her face a picture of relief. “Thank god you’re back. I was worried about you, especially with this weather.”

  “I’m fine,” Decker said.

  “You’re drenched,” she exclaimed. “We need to get those clothes off you before you catch your death.” She guided him toward her bedroom at the back of the house. “I was starting to think you weren’t going to come back.”

  “Sorry.” He peeled off his jacket, which was wet not only from the dash to Nancy’s porch, but also from the time spent out at the Gas and Go, then unbuttoned and removed his sodden shirt. The rain seemed to have found every way to get into his clothes. “I came back as quickly as I could.”

  “I know.” She pulled at his belt, releasing the buckle. “Take your pants off. I’ll put them in the dryer.”

  “Is Taylor any better?” Decker fought his way out of his pants. The fabric stuck to him and he almost fell over, but Nancy steadied him.

  “Not really. I went up to see her after you left and she was already awake. She was reading old text messages from Jake over and over. I gave her some more pills and that seems to have knocked her out again for now. I increased the dose so she should be good until morning.”

  “Taylor will recover. Give her time.” He slipped an arm around her waist and kissed her, their lips lingering together as if neither one of them wanted the touch to end. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”

  “That sounds nice.” Nancy nodded. “I should put your clothes in the dryer and check on Taylor, just to make sure she’s okay.”

  “Alright, but don’t be long.” Decker watched Nancy cross the room in the direction of the door, enjoying the way she looked in the black negligee that barely reached her knees. He wondered if she had put the garment on in anticipation of his return, or if it was something she wore regularly. Either way, she looked damn good.

  On her way out she grabbed a cotton robe and wrapped it around herself, and then she disappeared from view. He heard a creak or two as she ascended the stairs, and another as she made her way along the corridor to Taylor’s room.

  He made himself comfortable on the bed, and closed his eyes, thankful to be somewhere warm and dry. When he opened them again Nancy had returned. She stood at the end of the bed, a wry smile upon her face. She tugged at the belt that held the robe closed and slipped it off, then slid the straps of the negligee off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor before joining him.

  41

  JEREMIAH BOUDREAUX HADN’T moved in almost two hours. He sat perched on the edge of the sofa, a box of old photographs open on the coffee table in front of him. The photos, some of them Polaroids taken decades before, others shot using his old Pentax 35MM camera, were strewn all over. Faded color images of Terry smiled up at him from yellowed photographic paper. One showed his son at age 10 riding a bicycle on the dirt road outside the trailer, another pictured Jeremiah, Terry and Pamela, a happy family, posing together
on a beach somewhere. It was probably Pensacola, the only vacation they ever took together.

  A bottle of liquor sat on the floor next to the couch. It was still full. At first all Jeremiah wanted to do was drain the bottle, hoping it would burn away the pain, but when he lifted it to his lips he knew the hooch would not have any effect, not tonight, and so he placed it down on the ground, and left it there, a silent witness to his torment.

  A dull fire burned inside the old man as he sat on that couch, an anger that mixed with the grief to form a blinding, seething pain that he could not see beyond.

  Hours before, in a fit of wild rage, he tore through the trailer, knocking things over, kicking at furniture, punching anything in his way, breaking crockery and ornaments. He screamed curses out loud, some at Terry for getting himself killed, others at Floyd, who was surely as much to blame as the beast that had ripped the men apart, even at himself, for allowing Terry to get mixed up with the moonshiner in the first place. It was only when he came upon the box of photographs that he finally cried, taking the photos out one by one, remembering each moment as if it were yesterday. Finally even the tears dried up. He opened the liquor and sat in the silence of his trailer, and as he did so the rage seethed like a serpent coiling around his heart. He knew what he must do. He reached for the phone, dialed a number, spoke to the person on the other end for a moment, and then repeated the process a couple more times. When he was finished making calls, he heaved himself up and walked to the small closet in the kitchen. He opened the door and reached in, his hand closing around something cold and hard. He brought out the rifle and stood stock still, letting the gun comfort him a while, before pulling open the trailer door and stepping out into the howling, rain soaked night.