Jagger

by Kristopher Rufty

  Her voice sounded different now, lower, not quite as chipper. “Thanks,” he said.

  Mark walked to the trash can, stepped down on the footswitch, and watched the lid fly up. It was pretty full inside, but not so much that the bag needed to be changed. It was station policy that whoever opened the can when it was full had to change the bag. He dropped the bottle inside and took his foot away. The lid slowly shut.

  “Well, I’m going to head home,” said Carla. “If you change your mind, call me. I’ll whip up something for you real quick.”

  “Thank you, Carla. I’ll let you know if I do.”

  Her lips tightened. She nodded. “Good.” She used her elbows to push herself away from the fridge. She started walking. Her shoes made soft popping sounds against the bottoms of her feet. She had on sandals, with a strap running up between her big and second toes. They sparkled against her dusky skin. “Oh, I almost forgot.”

  Mark stepped forward. “Yeah?”

  “Pierce left an envelope for you. I put it on your desk.”

  “Is he here?”

  “No, he took off right at five. Guess he had to hit the golf course. You know how he is.”

  Mark laughed. “Yeah. Did he say anything about it?”

  “Nope. Just wanted you to have it, so I put it on your desk.”

  “Thanks,” he headed for the doorway. Turning back, he saw Carla hadn’t moved from in front of the fridge. She just stood a couple inches away from it, her lunch bag dangling beside her leg.

  She wants me to say I changed my mind.

  Instead, Mark sighed. “Have a good evening.”

  “You, too.”

  Mark hurried out of the breakroom before she could say anything else. Each time she handed him an open invite to come to her house, he turned it down. Why? He should just get it over with. It would be fun. He wanted her, she wanted him. So what was the hold up?

  Me.

  He didn’t want any flings right now. Didn’t really want a girlfriend, either.

  But what he really didn’t want was to continue being alone. That really sucked. He needed somebody to occupy his time away from the station and he was sure Carla would gladly take that responsibility.

  She might want more.

  And that was where the real problem derived. He could tell she actually had feelings for him that she hid behind her constant flirting. If he gave in to her just once, she would want him to every time. It would lead to her wanting something else from him.

  Again he thought of Amy, and didn’t know why.

  He nodded at other officers as he maneuvered through the small maze of cubicles. He hated this layout. Back when he’d first started, the desks had been out in the open and everybody could see each other. With these thin walls standing around him, he felt like he was in a cheaply-constructed cage. It was meant to add privacy, but all it really did was amplify their voices, making it easy to eavesdrop on conversations.

  He saw a couple of the officers from the robbery moving around, papers flapping in their hands. They didn’t seem to notice him as he headed to his desk. Stepping around one of the walls, he turned into the cramped space. His desk was against the flimsy felt wall. Papers were scattered across the top. To anyone else it would be a mess, to Mark it was organized chaos. He knew exactly where everything was.

  The manila envelope was on top, his name written on the front with a black marker. Sitting down, he spun the chair around to face the desk. He took the envelope and leaned back, hanging his ankle on his knee.

  Shaking the envelope, he could tell it wasn’t very thick. Felt like maybe one or two pieces of paper were inside. He flipped it over. Pierce didn’t seal the top, just used the brass bracket to hold the lip down. He opened it, stuck two fingers in and stretched them. Just as he’d thought, only a couple sheets inside. Upturning the brown packet, he shook the papers into his hand. Two of them. A note had been taped to the front page.

  Found a match pretty quickly. Hope it helps—Pierce.

  The top page was Pierce’s report, which Mark put on his desk. He hated reading them. Too technical for his tastes. Seemed as if guys like Pierce used too many words to say something simple.

  The second and final page was a mug shot. Mark didn’t need to read the name to know the face. He’d had a couple run-ins with the chubby man personally.

  Freddy Cormack.

  Frowning, Mark leaned back the chair and propped his feet on his desk. It felt good stretching out his legs, tingling as comfort settled in.

  Freddy’s father was Dean—Big D—Cormack, used to own Cormack’s towing. When he’d died, Freddy sold it, but had kept the farm and all the land.

  Now why had he been smoking a cigar at Amy’s place?

  That was a good question. And Mark was afraid he already knew the answer. More than once Freddy had been implicated in animal mistreatment. The hushed rumblings of a dog fighting ring that this town secretly thrived on spread around the station like a bad cold. He’d heard about it more than once, but had never had any evidence to back up the claims. No one had. Though it was right in there faces, the evidence seemed to not exist.

  And now Jagger’s missing, and Freddy had been at Amy’s. He wondered if he should ask Amy if she was friends with him.

  No. If she doesn’t know him, it will only get her thinking. She might decide to look him up herself.

  Trying Freddy first would be the best choice. He’d swing by the farm on the way home. Right now he had to finish his paperwork and turn it in before he could do anything.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Teresa ended the call. She set the phone in the compartment under the car’s radio. Though she hadn’t been fired from her job, she didn’t feel any more relieved than before she made the call. She’d lied to her boss and told him there were issues with her family, so he gave her a few more days to sort things out.

  Should’ve just let him fire me.

  The only way she would ever leave Honkers was if they made her. A sad truth, but it was one she’d accepted a long time ago. She was the only employee with seniority since she’d been there the longest. Other girls came and went in a cycle that seemed endless.

  Another year they might give me a pen to show their appreciation.

  Smirking, she leaned forward, taking a cigarette from the pack. She’d just gotten it lit when the light turned green. She put her foot on the gas and started going through the intersection.

  A cattle truck soared in front of her, its horn blaring. Screaming, Teresa stamped the brakes, stopping just an inch or two from the truck. Cows gazed at her through the tiny windows as if bored. The odor of manure drifted through the vents with the cool air.

  “Asshole! Don’t you know red means stop!?!”

  The driver couldn’t hear her, but she didn’t care. Shouting at him helped her feel better. Did nothing for the painful knocks of her heart that seemed to jut in her throat, or the jitters in her hands as she gripped the wheel. She checked both directions this time, saw it was clear, and drove on.

  That’d be the way to go. Getting killed on my way to the barn.

  A fitting end, Teresa decided. Would serve her right for what she’d done to Amy. At least she’d finally stopped texting her. When Teresa had gotten last request to come over, Teresa told her she couldn’t and hoped to see her tomorrow. It seemed to have worked.

  But she couldn’t keep avoiding her. Eventually she’d have to go over there.

  Just not tonight.

  How would she act in front of Amy? Could she pretend she knew nothing about Jagger?

  I better be able to.

  Just play dumb and sympathetic. She’d done it before, she could do it again.

  Civilization seemed to vanish as she drove. The familiar farmland appeared on either side of the road. Dusk had come, laying a purple hue across the land. The sky was vibrant with orange and red, as if the sun had burst and spilled colorful fluids over the clouds.

  Usually the sunset was a vision she enjoy
ed, however, this evening it filled her with dread. She hoped to be over these emotions by now, but with that cop visiting her this morning, she’d been a wreck all day.

  Hopefully seeing Clayton would sooth her uneasiness some. He didn’t know she was coming and hopefully he wouldn’t be mad. He’d told her this morning he would come over around five. He was two hours late, so she was going to see him.

  Teresa slowed the car down, gazing out her window to find the driveway. She’d drive right past it if she wasn’t careful.

  There it is.

  She spotted the faded path on the left and eased her car onto it. With the radio off, the crackling sounds of her tires rolling over gravel filled the cab. The trees around her blocked out what little bit daylight that remained. It looked like night as she drove, so she turned on the headlights.

  Coming out of the trees, the headlights swept a bright path over Clayton’s truck and Freddy’s white van. The barn stood beyond the cars, dark except for the dim bar of light between the closed doors.

  He’s inside.

  Driving up beside Clayton’s truck, she put the car in park. She sat there, car idling, staring at the barn. The dark boards, rickety structure and rotted sections gave it a haunted look. Like the kind of place kids are warned to stay away from because of boogeymen.

  I should stay away from here, too.

  Teresa turned the air down. The buffeting hiss coming from the vents softened. Vaguely, she could hear crickets and frogs cheeping from the woods. Other than the usual nighttime soundtrack, all was quiet.

  Teresa shut off the car. She unclasped the safety harness. When the metal tip knocked against the paneling, she jumped. Putting a hand flat on her breasts, she laughed at herself.

  So jumpy.

  Opening the door, she climbed out. The air was damp with humidity, licking her skin with a bland moistness. She thought about taking her purse with her, but decided to leave it behind.

  Something clattered from inside the barn. Clayton yelled, “Shit!”, and Jagger barked.

  That wasn’t a bark.

  Sounded more like a roar. She’d heard Jagger bark enough to recognize it, though its tone was strange and deeper.

  Angrier.

  Though it was thick and stifling outside, Teresa suddenly felt cold. Hugging herself, she started toward the barn. Her feet crunched over the gravel, made whispering sounds in the grass as she approached the front doors.

  The barking turned to guttural growls. More hammering sounds followed, as if somebody was pounding the walls with steel mallets. Standing outside the doors, Teresa took deep breaths to calm down.

  It didn’t work.

  She reached for the handle with a palsied hand. The metal felt slick and cool as her fingers curled around it. Slowly, she slowly pulled the door. Hinges groaned. Light spilled out through the gap.

  The noises from inside became louder. She could feel them on her, puffing her hair. An odor like spoiled meat came with it, mixed with another stench that reminded her of old metal.

  Teresa entered the barn, walking slowly, her feet dragging the floor.

  The tumult of violent pounding and vicious snarls ricocheted off the walls, making her flinch and jump. She covered her ears with her hands. “Clayton!”

  “Teresa?” He shouted back. “What are you doing here?”

  She couldn’t remember why she’d come here. Trying to recall her motives was like reaching into a dark pond and hoping to grab a fish. “What’s happening?” she shouted.

  “Get back here and help me!” cried Clayton.

  Teresa ran on legs that felt weak and rubbery, heading to the back. She could see a row of horse stables to the left. Clayton stood in front of one, his shoulder against it. At first glance, it looked as if he was convulsing as he leaned onto the door. When she got closer, she saw he was actually bouncing from the vibrations of something on the other side slamming against it. Something that wanted to break out. The door bowed outward from the frame before Clayton jammed it back shut.

  The growls were even more intense this close, as if some kind of demon was locked up behind Clayton.

  “Is that...?” she said.

  “Yes,” he said, knowing what she couldn’t say.

  “Why does he sound like that?”

  “Don’t worry about that now!” He pointed behind her. “See the tools over there?” His body heaved forward. He reared back, pounding his back against the door. “See them?”

  Teresa turned. There was a workbench with tools scattered across the top. More hung from a pegboard above it. “Yes!”

  “Grab me a hammer and some nails!”

  “What?” She turned around, looking at him. Her face hurt from the wide grimace of her confusion. “Why?”

  “Just do it!”

  Clayton’s face was red with strain. Veins jutted on his neck in thick chords. His hair was stringy and wet, plastered to the sides of his face. She could see the dark stains on his shirt, gluing it to his chest. At his feet were shallow gullies in the dirt from his shoes digging in to keep him propped up.

  The door continued to quake behind Clayton as Jagger’s roaring growls made Teresa’s lungs tremble.

  “Hurry!”

  Clayton’s shout kicked her into motion. She ran to the workbench, putting her hands flat on top. She scanned the top two times before noticing the hammer.

  “Ah!” she squealed, snatching it up.

  The nails!

  She looked for the nails, expecting them to be gathered together near where the hammer had been. She saw none.

  “Teresa!”

  “I’m looking!”

  “Hurry up!”

  “I said I’m looking, damn it!”

  Clayton yelled, but said nothing else.

  She couldn’t find them. No stray nails, no box with them inside. Nothing.

  Sweeping her hand across the table’s warped surface, her fingers knocked against an old coffee can. It turned over with a jingling rattle. Nails rolled out.

  “Got them!”

  Teresa used her hand to gather the spilled nails back into the can, then picked it up. She turned around, holding the hammer up in one hand and the can in the other.

  Clayton saw them in her hands and smiled.

  Then the door broke away from the hinges with a crackling snap.

  It pounded against Clayton’s back, knocking him forward. He crashed to the floor, the door landing on his back and smashing him down.

  Screaming, Teresa dropped the coffee can. It hit the floor by her feet and tipped over. The nails sounded like breaking glass when they poured out.

  Jagger clambered out from the darkness. His paws made deep thumps on the wood as he stepped up onto the door.

  “Oh my god,” whispered Teresa, shaking her head. “Dear Jesus, no...”

  The dog was somehow bigger, swollen, his legs thicker. The once healthy pelt that had looked glossy under the sunlight was matted and clumped together with blood and dirt. His face was smeared in a crimson paste, feathers stuck to it like fluffy hairs.

  Growling, the saggy flaps writhed around his sharp teeth.

  “Jagger?” she said.

  His mouth closed, an ear perked up. He tilted his head as if her voice confused him.

  “Jagger, buddy, it’s me. It’s Aunt Teresa.”

  A sweet whine emanated from his throat. The patch of hair that had been sticking up on his back sank. Lowering his head, his rump raised, tail extended as a stretch worked its way through his muscles. He looked as if he was about to roll over and offer his stomach to Teresa for scratching.

  She lowered her stare to below the door. Though Clayton didn’t move, she could tell he was awake. His arms reached out both sides of the door, motionless. She supposed he was trying to remain still so he wouldn’t do anything to set Jagger off again.

  With another soft whine, Jagger slowly walked forward. He stepped off the door, onto the dirt floor. As he neared Teresa, Clayton quietly wiggled his way out from undernea
th the door.

  Putting the hammer behind her back, Teresa sunk to a crouch. “Come here.” She could feel the coolness of the hammer’s metal through her shirt. The solid flat of its head was reassuring. “Come on, boy.”

  Jagger licked his lips, whined again. Head sagging, he kept coming, like a dog about to be reprimanded. The large dog was in front of her now, blocking her view of Clayton. He sat down on his rear, putting his forepaws flush in front of him. His head hung low as if he was ashamed for his behavior.

  “There’s my big boy,” she said in a soft voice.

  Teresa noticed movement behind Jagger. Peering over his giant head, she saw Clayton had gotten out from beneath the door. He was on his knees, working his arm back and forth as if trying to get feeling back into it.

  Jagger whimpered, his head lowering to the hand resting on her leg. Tensing up, she prepared herself for a bite. Instead, she felt a tickling wetness.

  He was licking her.

  “That’s a good boy,” she said.

  Clayton held his arms out, as if asking her what he should do. Shaking her head, she cautiously lifted her other hand from behind her back.

  Clayton nodded when he saw the hammer.

  “Jagger?” Her voice remained soft, gentle. Trusting.

  He kept licking, his plushy tongue dabbing her thigh.

  She poised the hammer above his skull, reared it back. Jagger stopped licking. With his head down, his eyes raised up to look at her. They moved past her head, to her pulled-back arm. The hammer was mirrored in the dark yellow of his eyes.

  A deep growl rattled in his chest.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  She brought the hammer down.

  Jagger’s jaws opened and caught her arm between them. They snapped shut like a trap, sharp teeth tilling into her skin. Pain exploded through her arm. Teresa screamed when he gripped harder, his teeth crunching her bone.

  The hammer dropped from her hand.

  Jagger jerked his head to the side, yanking her forward. She landed on her stomach, arm reaching up before her. She started moving, being dragged toward the stall.