“If we were able to get them to believe us—to show them exactly what they are dealing with—then maybe they could stop it. They could stop looking for a sick bear and start looking for the actual assailant. For the chupacabra.” Jessica stopped, waiting for Claire to respond. When she didn’t, Jessica asked, “We have to try, don’t we?”
Claire stared up at the popcorn ceiling. Finally, she brought her gaze down to Jessica. “And how are we going to prove it to the police?”
“By going to Cameron’s house,” Jessica said.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” Claire yelled. “Are you fucking kidding me, Jessica? You want us to break into a dead man’s house—his mansion—to what?”
“To take pictures of it. Preferably video, if we can.”
“Holy mother of God.” Claire shook her head. “What if we get arrested? Or even worse, what if your creature decides to attack us instead?”
“We are not going to go outside, obviously,” Jessica said. “From what the news said about the Wasp Canyon attacks, and from what I read about the 1987 murders, it makes a bunch of noise to get its victims to come outside.
“And we already know it can set a trap—just look at my ankle,” Jessica pointed to the boot. “So when it shows up and starts knocking stuff over, we film it. And we will leave the lights off inside the house, so it doesn’t know we’re there. When no one goes outside, it’ll leave. Then we show the video to the police.” She fell silent. After a moment, she added, “We can wait until morning to leave if you want, so we know for sure it’s gone when we leave the house.”
Claire said nothing. She stared at Jessica with a blank expression, her mouth ajar.
Jessica pressed on, seemingly unphased. “We know it is going to Cameron’s house next. It will do what it always does—throw stuff around in the backyard and try to lure the person out of the house. We simply won’t go out. Like I said, we will keep the house dark and stay behind some furniture while we film it. We can even call the cops once it shows up, if you want.”
Claire broke her silence, her voice sounding shaky and far away. “You want to break into a millionaire's mansion, then call the police and tell him you broke in?”
“To catch the chupacabra!” Jessica exclaimed. “I’m not going to just call and say, ‘Hey, I broke in just ‘cause I wanted to see how the better half lives’.”
“And what if it gets into the house?” Claire asked, still feeling like she was off in the distance.
“What do you mean?”
“The . . . chupacabra.” It was the first time Claire had said the word out loud. She didn’t like the way it felt in her mouth—all slithering and full of menace. “What happens if we are in the house filming it and it knows we’re there? And then it comes after us?”
“I don’t think that will happen.”
“And why not? You showed me an article of a family getting attacked inside their home. Why wouldn’t it do that to us?”
Jessica pondered the question. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “In 1987, all of the killings were outdoors—or at least started outdoors—except for the last one. Perhaps when it got so close to the end of the monsoon season, it got eager to get one last meal—you know, like a grizzly bear before hibernation. Those houses in that neighborhood in south Tucson were poorly made, I mean, I think they were known for their shaky doors and flimsy windows. The houses in Wasp Canyon are basically fortresses.” She paused for a while, returning her gaze to the window. “All I can say is that it did not behave that way in the eighties, not this soon in the cycle and not in a house as well built as Cameron’s. I don’t know if it would try to break in or not. I don’t think it would, not this early on, but honestly I don’t know.” She looked back at Claire and waited.
Claire stared at her, unable to speak. How was she supposed to respond to that? I don’t know if it will break in and kill us? She had an answer to everything else, for Christ’s sake! But nothing when it came to their own safety?
Jessica shuffled through her papers and pulled out a printed picture of a family. It was a Christmas card, all red and green. A mother and father stood with their arms around each other, smiling warmly at the camera. Two children sat on a velvety red sofa in front of the parents, holding hands and grinning in that mischievous yet adorable way that only children can do. All were wearing matching flannel shirts. On the bottom, in cursive lettering, it said “Merry Christmas from the McElroy’s.”
Claire stared at the picture for a long time. She felt her heart ache in her chest, an almost welcome feeling in comparison to the nauseating fear. “Where did you get that?” she whispered.
“The McElroy’s Facebook page,” Jessica whispered back. She pushed the picture across the table so Claire had a better view.
“You’re telling me that the next house after Cameron’s belongs to this family?” Claire asked, pointing at the picture.
“Yeah, that’s them.”
Claire stared at the two children, a beautiful blonde girl with her hair in pigtails and a boy with sandy hair splashed across his forehead. The thought of those two children ending up like the others broke her heart. The fear was forced out by the heartache—there was no room inside of her for both emotions. And in the end, her heart had weeded out the fear—well, at least shoved it into the shadows.
“So all we have to do is go to Cameron’s house, film it while hiding inside, and then go straight to the police and show them the video?”
“And then they will have to evacuate Wasp Canyon Estates and call in the troops. How could they see a video of the chupacabra, in flesh and blood, and do nothing?”
“Don’t mention blood right now,” Claire said, thinking again about the tarp stretched over Ava Cuthbertson’s red smears.
“And if the police still don’t do anything,” Jessica continued, “we’ll go to the reporters. Tell all the news stations what is actually going on out there. Even if the police continue to deny it, the public sure won’t. They’ll take one look at that thing and run for the hills. Well, away from the hills actually.”
“On two conditions,” Claire said. “First, we call the McElroy’s and see if they will leave willingly. If so, we don’t go. We figure out another way. Second, you call that detective of yours one more time. Tell him again what is going on, and see if the police will agree to stake out the place instead of us. Or at least evacuate the area for the time being.”
“Agreed. And if both of those conditions fall through?”
“Then I guess I’m strapping on my sidekick jumper and accompanying Van Helsing to the castle to vanquish the dreaded vampire.” Claire shook her head, reality still feeling beyond her grasp.
“What’s your sidekick jumper look like?” Jessica asked, smiling. “I’m guessing pink with sequins.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “When?” she asked, staring at the picture on the coffee table. The McElroy family smiled up at her from their matching flannel shirts.
“Friday night. August 17th.”
“Why then?”
“Because I have never found an instance of this thing attacking without at least a few nights in between. It fed last night, so I think it is safe to say it won’t come out for the next few nights. All the attacks, both in ‘87 and now, seem to be around five to six nights apart. If we go Friday—that’s five days—and it doesn’t show, we can just go back the next night.”
Jessica looked down at the McElroy’s, a beautiful family with hopes of a beautiful future. “The father would be the one to go out first,” she said, “to investigate a strange noise outside in the night. I can’t let those kids grow up without a father. They need every second with him that they can get—every damn second.”
Claire stood up from the couch. Ping! “Well then,” she said, “if I’m possibly dying in a few days, then I’m having a drink tonight. And you’re buying.” Claire reached a hand down to Jessica.
Jessica reached up and let Claire pull her to a standing position. “Sounds good
to me. We’ll drink to our future.”
The words hung in the air, like the stench of stale milk. They smiled at each other, but the smiles did not reach their eyes.
Chapter 44
Moser sat at his desk, listening to his chair creak as he rocked back and forth. He spent the bulk of yesterday and much of the morning sitting in his office, looking at newspaper articles online and unsure of what to do next. The chief of police was in the building today, and word on the street was that he wanted to see Moser in the afternoon to discuss recent events. Moser had not wanted to leave the safety of his office since hearing the news about the chief, except for the occasional trip to the john. He had a headache throbbing at his temples, and the fatigue from the last thirty-six hours was beginning to wear on him.
Going home was not an option, though. There was a press conference scheduled for five that afternoon. From what he heard, the chief was planning to have Moser lead the conference—a prospect that he was dreading more and more with each passing minute. The press wanted answers about these attacks, and apparently saying “No comment” every time they asked him a damn question wasn’t going to work anymore. That was obvious, with the amount of outrageous articles being published each hour regarding the murders in Wasp Canyon.
Moser’s computer was on the right-hand side of his desk, the screen’s blue light increasing the throbbing in his temples. He had already clicked through many of the articles regarding the attacks. Damn technology. People used to have to wait until the next newspaper came out, which at least gave the police a little bit of time to get a grasp on the situation. Now, with the help of the internet, all the breaking news was only a click away. There had already been eleven articles issued electronically on the various news websites regarding the most recent deaths. Eleven, he thought, shaking his head. And half of them are the goddamn tabloids running amuck of everything. Fucking reporters. Fucking animal attacks.
Multiple windows were open on Moser’s desktop, all with a different article about the Wasp Canyon murders. Moser’s chair issued another sad creak as he leaned forward and began clicking through the articles again.
“Two More Slain in Wasp Canyon Estates.” Click. “Wasp Canyon’s Elite are Dropping Like Flies.” Click. “Police Are Dumbfounded with Two More Dead in Wasp Canyon.” Click. “Local Psychic Says More Will Die in Wasp Canyon.” Click. “Serial Killer on the Loose in Tucson, Police Have No Leads.” Click. “The Beast of Wasp Canyon Strikes Again.” Click. “The Murderer in Our Midst, the Rise of Tucson’s First Serial Killer.” Click.
Moser pushed himself away from the computer, his vision blurring as his headache intensified. He massaged his temples, reviewing the web articles in his mind. The major news networks at least stuck to the facts, give or take. They demanded action from the police, and multiple networks were beginning to use the term serial killer. The tabloid articles, on the other hand, were just plum outrageous, but Moser feared that with a killer at large people would gravitate to those articles just as much as the top news stations. Mass hysteria would set in before the week was up. One tabloid said there was a desert-dwelling serial killer that lived off the land and only went after millionaires that lived alone. Another said that the serial killer running loose in Tucson was most definitely human and only disguised his gruesome murders as the work of an animal. There was talk about satanic cults and ritualistic sacrifices. And Moser’s personal favorite: the killer was a disgruntled ex-millionaire that lost all his money in the stock market and then trained his dogs to kill Tucson’s wealthiest citizens as pay back. Oh lordy, the shit is surely hitting the fan now.
Most of the department was still operating under the assumption that a rogue or diseased desert predator was to blame. There had been countless searches of the surrounding desert and dozens of traps set—all fruitless so far. The paw prints at the Arlington house had silenced most of the officers that were suggesting a human assailant, although Moser suspected some of them had read the tabloid article about trained killer dogs and were now thinking a crazed madman was stalking Wasp Canyon Estates with a couple of blood-thirsty pit bulls. The paw prints had not resembled a domesticated dog in the least—had not resembled any known animal for that matter—but that didn’t seem to stop some tongues from wagging in the department.
And now a press conference was scheduled, where Moser was supposed to say they were following all possible leads (which were zero) and doing everything they could to protect the public (which, so far, had been nothing). Moser had suggested evacuating Wasp Canyon Estates after the discovery of Arlington and Kilburn, but that was quickly shot down by his superiors. Apparently, you can’t treat millionaires just like everyone else. You can’t expect them to just leave their mega-mansions willingly with no logical explanation of why they must leave or when they can return. It will bring mass hysteria, they said. We could get sued, they said. Like getting sued was the main threat right now.
Moser leaned his girth back in his creaky chair, and returned his attention to the mountains outside the window. It’s out there, he thought. Right now. Somewhere out there it was sleeping, waiting, and biding its time until nightfall. Maybe not tonight, or tomorrow night, but some night very soon, when the darkness came, it will come with it.
☼ ☼ ☼
Moser was called in to speak with the chief of police early that afternoon. The word chupacabra danced on his tongue as he sat on the subordinate side of the desk in the chief’s office, listening to the chief chastise him on his department’s lack of progress thus far.
Just say the word, and then it won’t just be your problem anymore, Moser thought. If it gets rebuffed, at least you could say you tried. At least it won’t weigh so heavily on your heart when the next widow gets murdered. Just say it. Say the word. Say chupa . . .
“Moser? Are you listening to me?”
“Yes sir.”
“We’re losing a handle on this thing. And you can’t keep saying ‘No comment’ every time a reporter asks you a question. I mean, just look at these articles.” The chief picked up a stack of newspapers that was lying on his desk. He began setting them down, one by one. “No comment,” he said, and set a newspaper down. “No comment,” he said, and set the next one down. He continued for the remaining four newspapers. “Look Moser, I know you don’t like talking to the press, but with this being such a high-profile case, I need someone who can communicate with the reporters. Otherwise we just look like a bunch of asses.”
“Yes, I know. You’re right, Chief,” Moser said, looking down at the newspaper on top of the stack. He recognized the article on the front page from one he had open on his computer browser.
“So what can you tell me about leads on the case?”
“No leads so far, sir.”
“Then what the hell can you tell me?” the chief asked.
Now or never, he thought. Moser wanted out of the room, and away from the conversation, but something deep in his gut told him he had to stick this one out. He needed to face his demons—both literally and metaphorically. It was time to get over his phobia of animal attacks—time to face his childhood fears head on—and it was well past time to stop whatever creature was causing all this. Moser feared he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t. He couldn’t run away and hide under the covers like a frightening child while people were dying. He swore to protect them, and it was about time he stopped beating around the goddamn bush and actually did it. Animal attacks or not. Serial killer or not. Chupacabra or not.
“Chief, I think we need to explore the possibility that the victims were attacked by an animal that we are not familiar with.”
“What? Like a tiger? Christ, Moser, do you think one of those Wasp Canyon bastards has a pet tiger up there?”
“No sir. I meant the animal responsible might be something that has been rumored to exist, but has not been proven to exist yet. This is an animal that preys on human beings. I’m beginning to believe that the animal responsible is a chupacabra.”<
br />
“A chupa—what? Like the urban legend?” The chief looked at Moser incredulously. “Christ, Carl, are you feeling alright? I know you’ve always had some sort of aversion to animal cases, but this? An urban legend?”
“The evidence is right in front of us. No known animal behaves this way. This creature—”
“Creature? Carl, I can’t have you going up in front of the press and saying some sort of mythical creature is responsible for all this. It would be chaos.”
“I understand that it would be difficult, but—”
“I’ve heard enough. I’m pulling you from this, Carl. Take a few days—hell, take a week—to get your head on straight and start thinking clearly. Get some sleep. Spend some time with your wife. Whatever you need. I’ll get Helms on this instead.”
“Helms? He hasn’t even—”
“Let me worry about that. You’re done with this case.” The chief shook his head. “You’re one of my best detectives, Carl. What I need is for you to take some time and get your shit together.”
“What about the press conference?” Moser asked.
“Oh hell. I guess I’m gonna have to do it. Helms isn’t caught up on everything yet. Alright Moser, get out of here. I have a lot of work to do before five. Go get yourself a beer or something. Clear your head. I’ll get you on something a little more low-key when you get back next week.”
“Yes sir,” Moser said, defeated. He left the chief's office with his head low and shoulders slumped. Taken off the case? That never happened to him before. He was about to duck into the men’s room when an office aide approached him with an urgent look on her face. What in God’s name happened now? Please let there not have been another one already.
“Detective Moser, sorry to interrupt,” she said.
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