“Hey—thanks,” I said as I moved toward the door. “For everything,” I added, hoisting the cookies and the research folder. “And what I told the kids goes for you, too. Watch out for Dastardly and Muttley,” I warned, meaning the obnoxious special agents.
“Will do,” Blair promised. They followed me to the door, gave me hugs, and locked up behind me.
Just in case, I stayed on high alert as I walked to my truck, on the lookout for dragons, crazy doctors, and know-it-all men in black.
I unlocked the door and climbed inside, then patted the dash affectionately. “That-a girl, Elvira. Demon’s waiting for us at home. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.” I had a dorky Doberman, a six-pack of beer, fresh cookies, and a couple of shows I’d been waiting to stream.
Do I know how to live it up, or what?
4
I headed out the next morning to Tidioute, looking for the missing bobcat shifter. Father Leo had church committee meetings, and Tristan was afraid that if there were any other cat-shifters in the area who knew about Corey, they would sense his wolf and clam up. Sara had guests at her bed and breakfast and couldn’t leave during the day. So that left me all by my lonesome, with Blair and Chiara promising to feed Demon if I got home late.
The beautiful, desolate countryside isn’t for everyone. Cold, too. The folks who stick around love the outdoors. Those yearning for more refined pastimes or warmer weather go elsewhere. That made it perfect for shifters.
Like a lot of towns in Pennsylvania, Tidioute’s glory days were behind it. It boomed back when oil was first discovered before the Civil War, along with Drake’s Well and other places most people haven’t heard of. Houses, saloons, and a brothel quickly followed the money and left just as fast when the oil ran dry. Fewer than a thousand people lived in town now, and I had a sneaking suspicion that at least some of those who stayed knew more about bobcat shifters than they were telling.
Big surprise—I didn’t have a solid plan for what I was going to do once I got there.
Pat Carmody had a friend of a friend on the police force in Tidioute. Backwoods PA is ridiculously connected like that. So at least I had a contact. The person I really wanted to talk with was Joel Landon, Corey’s older brother. That meant Joel was also a shifter, and he might have some ideas about what happened to Corey. If I could get him to trust me and talk.
Assuming I didn’t end up as kitty chow.
I always felt nervous walking into police departments. Same with hospitals. Nothing good has ever happened to me in either place. But I had Pat’s word he had asked his friend to help me out, and I was paid up on my parking tickets. So I plastered on a confident smile, put a little swagger in my walk, and headed inside.
“Sergeant Bill Plummer, please,” I told the officer at the front desk. “Lieutenant Pat Carmody, Meadville PD, sent me.”
The officer looked me up and down. “You’re with the Meadville police?”
“Consultant.”
He signaled to a guy I figured must be Plummer. He was maybe an inch taller than my six-foot-two and probably had twenty pounds on me. I wagered I was in better shape, what with wrangling monsters and all.
We did the smile-and-stare stand-off, which is polite society’s substitute for just whipping out our dicks and measuring them. After a moment, he blinked, which I took as a win. I followed him to his desk.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Wojcik?” Plummer asked. Of course, he mangled my name. It’s “voy-chick,” not whatever he said. I didn’t correct him. I’m used to it by now, and trying to get him to say it right would only poke the bear.
“Some people in the Meadville/Conneaut Lake area have been reported missing, and they fit a similar profile to Corey Landon. I figured I’d drive out and see if there’d been any progress on Corey’s case. Might bode well for the others.”
Plummer gave me a squint-eyed stare. “I’m not entirely sure what you mean by Corey Landon’s ‘case.’ You want to explain?”
Pat had double-checked that Corey’s older brother had filed a report. Either Plummer was trying to bullshit me, or the local cops weren’t taking the report seriously.
“We’ve had several young men around Corey’s age go missing. They didn’t have any trips booked, family and friends didn’t know of any plans, hadn’t asked off from work or school. Missed social engagements and appointments. Hadn’t made any preparations to be gone—food rotting on the counter, milk gone bad, mail piling up, that sort of thing,” I replied, meeting his gaze just enough to show I wasn’t intimidated, but not throwing down the gauntlet.
I hate alpha male pissing contests.
Plummer shrugged. “Didn’t you ever get a wild hair up your ass when you were that age?” He didn’t try to pronounce my name again, for which I was grateful. “Maybe he met a girl. Or a boy? You never know these days. Could have decided to go to the big city and live it up for a while.”
He shook his head. “Boys that age don’t think about anyone but themselves. They get a thought in their heads and chase it, and it doesn’t even occur to them someone might worry, or what kind of a mess they’ll have when they get back. Eventually, they come limping home, when their money runs out.”
“So you’re not concerned?”
“Not really. There’s no sign of foul play. No threats. Sounds to me like bad decisions and youthful indiscretions. Nothing to get worked up about.”
I did a slow blink, trying to rein in my temper before my mouth landed me in the lock-up. Plummer was either lazy or completely checked out—or both. I didn’t pick up that he felt different about Corey in particular, as in maybe he suspected the Landon boys weren’t entirely human and had it in for them. He just didn’t care. No body, no blood—not his problem.
“Well, I’m glad we talked,” I said. “I’ll let Pat know we connected. Thanks for your time.”
“Sorry you drove all the way out here for nothing,” Plummer replied, not looking very sorry at all. “Since you’re here, might as well try some of the pie over at Wood’s Diner. It might not be completely worth the drive, but it comes close.”
I nodded my thanks and walked out before he could come up with a reason to make me stay.
After I left the police department, I drove past the Landon house. Corey was twenty-five, practically a cub given shifters’ long lives. Joel was twenty-eight. Their father had been out of the picture since they were kids, their mother died of cancer two years ago, and the brothers currently shared the family home. Since Tidioute didn’t look like it had a huge supply of apartments for rent, that was probably a good choice. At least until one of them got ready to settle down. Assuming we found Corey alive.
The ranch house was tidy and well-maintained. I wasn’t ready to knock on the door just yet, so I kept driving. The next stop was Wood’s Diner, where Corey had been working as a short-order cook, and Joel picked up extra hours waiting tables. I parked and walked in, taking a moment to enjoy the smell of fresh coffee and the blue plate special.
A glance at the tower of different pies and cakes in a refrigerated case near the register told me that whatever lies Plummer might have told me about Corey, he had told the truth about the pie. It looked amazing.
I headed straight for the register and ordered a cup of coffee and a piece of cherry pie to go, glancing around to get my bearings. Wood’s had a 1950s decor that had probably gone out of style and come back as retro. It looked authentic, as did the choices on the hand-lettered reader board over the pass-through to the kitchen. The tables were packed, which spoke well for the food.
“Will that be all?” a motherly woman asked as she rang up my order. I dug out my wallet, figuring cash left fewer traces, and handed her a bigger bill than necessary.
“Actually,” I replied, doing my best to look like something had just come to mind, “my brother wanted me to ask about a friend of his when I was in town. Corey Landon. Do you know where I could find him?”
The woman gave me a look that told me I hadn’t won her
confidence. “No idea. Haven’t seen him around lately. Sorry.”
I shrugged, trying to act like it didn’t matter. “Hey, I asked. I can tell my brother I tried.” She grunted in response like she didn’t care or didn’t believe me. Maybe both. I thanked her again, grabbed my coffee and pie, and headed out.
Hanging around cops has its advantages. I’ve learned a lot about how they do their jobs. Sometimes, they go looking for a suspect. Other times, they let the suspect come to them. I’d tried the first approach and struck out. But if Joel was still connected to the small-town grapevine, then I’d been visible enough about poking around I figured he might find me.
Since it was a nice day, I took a stroll, drinking my coffee and having a look around. Tidioute had that hard-worn look so common in most rural Pennsylvania towns. Like a prizefighter who isn’t ready to go down for the count, but who knows his best days are in the past.
Besides an oil boom, the town had once been famous for the knives made by local companies, including one of my favorites, Ka-Bars. Those suckers have saved my hide more times than I want to count. So, the town had that in its favor, as far as I was concerned. Except that, of course, the knives weren’t made there anymore.
I could see traces of better days in the remaining Victorian mansions, most of which were well-preserved. The small downtown put on a good face for the tourists who came for fishing competitions or outdoor adventures. I gave the locals credit for making the best of the situation and wondered again how many were shifters.
I stopped when I found a bench and sat down to eat my pie. The cop hadn’t lied—it was pretty damn fine. I leaned back, enjoying a moment in the sun, and sipped my rapidly cooling coffee.
A young man crossed in front of me, then sat on the far end of the bench. I’d noticed him following me since the diner, but figured he needed time to size me up. He was solidly built, with dark blond hair and brown eyes. His compact, muscular body moved with a cat’s assurance.
“Who are you, and why are you looking for Corey?” He didn’t look at me when he spoke, as if he’d commented on the weather or the Steelers.
“Joel?”
“I asked first.”
I tossed my empty cup and the pie container into a garbage can and tried not to turn toward my skeptical new companion.
“My name’s Mark Wojcik. I get involved in situations that don’t add up to the regular cops. And I don’t think Corey just went out for a run and forgot to come back.”
“I’ve heard your name. You’re a hunter. What’s it to you? Or were you going to hunt him, too?” There was no mistaking the edge in Joel’s voice. I couldn’t blame him.
“I only hunt things that hurt people. Otherwise, live and let live. Right now, I’m hunting the men I think hurt your brother. I don’t know whether or not we can rescue him, but one way or the other, I want to make damn sure those sons of bitches are stopped.” My gut said honesty was the way to play this, but when he didn’t say anything, I worried that I’d guessed wrong.
“I’m Joel,” he admitted. “The cops don’t believe Corey’s actually missing.”
“Yeah, I picked up on that. I take it that they don’t know…about your family?”
I could see him sizing me up out of the corner of my eye, trying to decide how much to trust me. “No. They don’t.”
“A guy like Corey doesn’t get lost in the woods. And I don’t think he’d up and leave on his own. It’s not hunting season, so we can probably rule out an unfortunate accident.” Shifters around here knew better. “What’s left?”
“Corey doesn’t have much money. We aren’t related to anyone important. He doesn’t have anything valuable enough for someone to kidnap him.”
“It’s not about what he has. It’s about what he is.” I let that settle, staying silent while Joel processed my words.
“You think that’s why someone took him?” Joel looked rattled.
“I do. But I’d like to retrace the last places we know Corey went and see what we find.”
He thought for a moment and then nodded. “Okay. I can show you. I need to get back to work at the diner, but I’m off in two hours.”
“That works. Where do you want to meet me? We can take two cars.” I wanted to set him as much at ease as possible, given the situation.
“Alright. Meet me in the parking lot by the diner, and you can follow me from there.” Joel got up and headed off before I could ask for a phone number. That made it easy for him to disappear if he changed his mind. Although from the look on his face, I didn’t think he’d ghost on me.
I ended up going back to the diner and getting the meatloaf special, which was as tasty as I’d hoped. To my surprise, the restaurant had wifi, so I checked the headlines, found them to be as depressing as ever, and then looked at email. I’d asked for a booth in the back against the wall since one came open just as they were seating me. That way no one could sit behind me and read over my shoulder, always a concern with the kind of messages I got about bloodshed and monsters. I guess most people don’t have autopsy photos pop up in their inbox. Lucky them.
Travis sent me some files about snallygasters, and Chiara shot me a quick note that she was hot on the trail of some promising leads. Once I knew nothing more than usual was on fire, I pulled out the folder Chiara had put together, and started to look at her research notes.
Brunrichter and Tumblety had very long rap sheets—longer than a regular mortal life. I agreed with Chiara that Brunrichter, in particular, was probably a mash-up of several people who had claimed his name over the years, in various locations.
He’d purchased a house in Pittsburgh that was the scene of a sensational murder in 1900, and legend held that a year later when the neighbors reported hearing screams coming from the house, the cops found a basement operating room with headless corpses, but Brunrichter himself had skipped out. After that, Brunrichter sightings were reported in many cities, including back in Pittsburgh, always associated with scandal and death. Some claimed he didn’t actually exist and was just a figment of urban legends.
Francis Tumblety’s history, on the other hand, had better documentation. He’d emigrated from Ireland, spent years fleecing the public as a quack doctor and snake-oil salesman, before his eccentric behavior and lack of real medical credentials landed him as a suspect for the shooting of Abraham Lincoln as well as the crimes of Jack the Ripper. His path crossed with Brunrichter often, sometimes working their dubious schemes together, and at other times, rivals.
Interestingly, sightings for both doctors continued, separately and together, over the decades, which made me think Chiara was on to something about them either being immortal or that others had taken their names to hijack their dark reputations. Over more than a century’s time, the two crazy doctors had been associated with a lot of bad stuff, including eugenics, experiments on unwilling human test subjects, fringe science, and even collaborating with the Nazis during the Second World War.
That didn’t surprise me. I’d heard stories about hunters who’d gone looking for the worst of the Nazis, during and after the war. Monsters like Mengele, who had also experimented on cryptids. The psychos always seemed fascinated with the idea of either controlling creatures or engineering them into something more.
What struck me was a note Chiara added at the bottom, “Interest in cryptids and creating either super-animals or super-humans was a thread throughout both men’s careers.”
Which tied in too well for comfort, given the current situation.
Shelley, my server, kept my coffee cup full and cleared away my empty plate. I waved off a second piece of pie, although it took fortitude. Then again, staying alive in this line of work means needing to be able to outrun things that want to eat you, so I had more incentive than most people to stick with a fitness plan.
No one bothered me as I worked, but that didn’t stop them from noticing. I chalked it up to this being a very small town, and me not being a local. We were in between seasons that would bring
deer hunters, fishing enthusiasts, or leaf-peeping tourists to town, so any easy reasons for me being here didn’t hold water. I pretended I didn’t notice them noticing me and tried to look as non-threatening as possible.
I gathered all my things before my meeting time with Joel. Being late wasn’t an option. I paid my check, left a generous tip, and got a cup of coffee to take with me. As I headed out, most people didn’t pay any attention, but two or three watched me go, and I wondered if they were just busybodies or if there was a darker reason for their interest.
If I learned anything from Stephen King’s books, it’s that small towns are magnets for murder and creepy people. I didn’t plan to take any chances.
By the time I stowed my stuff in the truck, Joel pulled up in a blue Focus. “Still interested?” he asked, and I couldn’t tell which answer he hoped to hear.
“Abso-fuckin-lutely,” I replied. “Lead on. I’ll follow.”
We wound through the town’s streets and then headed toward the forest on a state highway that had very little traffic. Despite the situation, I marveled again at the scenery. This section of my home state is wild and empty, and in my humble opinion, under-appreciated.
Joel led me to a deserted trailhead parking lot inside the Allegheny National Forest. I parked next to him and walked over to where he stood, just a few yards away from his car.
“This is where we found Corey’s car.” He pointed to the empty parking space in front of him. “We tried to get the cops to consider it as proof he’d been kidnapped, but they said there wasn’t any blood or evidence of foul play, and that was it.” Joel’s tone made his feelings clear.
“After they left, I shifted and went over it myself. I didn’t pick up anyone else’s scent—human or animal. No blood—that was a good thing.”
He stared at the spot as if his brother might suddenly rematerialize. “Corey’s stuff was in the car, and it didn’t look like anything was missing or had been gone through. I know he went for a run in his cat form because his clothes were folded on the back seat along with his shoes, and he left his wallet and phone in the glove compartment.”
Monster Mash Page 5