“Heady stuff, eh gentlemen?” Pimms peered over the top of his papers. Amused at the not-quite-comprehending looks on the faces of his two professors, he told them, “It goes on, of course, strict use of the scientific method, details on the training of successors and the such, but by and large, that’s the gist of things. You two impressed Mr. Kirowan at the last alumni dinner to no end, apparently.”
“Apparently,” answered Boles slowly, cleaning his glasses at the same time. “But, but this is…I mean, can we use the money separately? What would we, how does he see our two disciplines…that is, why would I want to hunt strange animals in some God-forsaken jungle?”
“I don’t know,” said Blakley with a sarcastic growl. “After all, rummaging through haunted houses has always been a dream of mine.”
“Gentlemen,” said Pimms with the smug sincerity of a polished administrator, “I’m sure you can come to some understanding. Mr. Kirowan had a keen interest in the occult. He felt the two of you would be excellent partners in this new approach. His endowment will allow you both to plunge as deeply as you could want into your particular fields. What more could any professor want?”
Turning toward the man in the seat next to him, the thickly built Blakley growled, “Do you even know what Crypto-Zoology is, Boles?”
“Let me guess,” replied the second professor in his reedy voice. “Might the name come from the Greek words kryptos meaning ‘hidden,’ and logos meaning ‘discourse,’ or in short, the ‘science of hidden or unknown animals?’ I might ask you the same of my discipline, but then my field is so much better known than yours…still, I see no difficulty in allowing you to ride my coattails, if it allows me to break new ground.”
Blakley bristled, but before he could fire a returning salvo the chancellor stepped in with the grace acquired presiding over a thousand board meetings, announcing, “Excellent, then everything’s settled. Congratulations, Dr. Blakley, Dr. Boles, may your new team be a great success.” And, with that, Pimms shook both their hands and escorted them to his door, careful not to allow even so much as a snicker to escape his lips until they were safely within his secretary’s domain.
“Look, Boles,” snapped Blakley as the door closed behind them, “Okay, I don’t like this any more than you do. But we don’t have any choice if we want the money. And you know our chances of getting another dime out of the university are nil if we were to let this endowment escape.”
“So, you’re saying we’re stuck with each other?”
“I’m saying there’s no percentage in being petulant. I’m willing to admit there are plenty of legendary creatures we could go after that are supposed to be connected in this or that way to the supernatural. Maybe Kirowan was onto something—maybe not. All I know is we’d be acting more immature than some of our students if we fumble this ball.”
“The word is ‘immaturely,’” responded Boles with practiced condescension, “but why not? Maybe we could even learn something from each other.” Boles extended his hand to Blakley. His short, wiry frame looked practically lost next to his new partner’s more bulky, muscular body. As they shook hands, Boles asked, “Any ideas where we could begin?”
“As a matter of fact,” answered the other professor with a grin, “I got an interesting fax just this morning, from a sheriff in Waycross, Georgia.”
WAYCROSS, GA—TWO DAYS LATER
Sheriff Donna Fargo had been the chief law enforcement officer for the town of Waycross for only six weeks. As chief deputy, she had stepped into the superior role when her mentor, Sheriff Willet Duncan had been tragically killed in a hunting accident in the swamps outside of town. Fargo was a woman of only average height and build who had decided long ago not to concern herself overly with enhancing her appearance through artificial means. Despite her lack of interest in the feminine arts, however, she still possessed a reasonably attractive face framed by thick auburn hair, both assets accentuated by her large, green eyes. It was a package that attracted much, usually unwanted, male attention. On their meeting, Dr. Blakley proved no different from the rest of his species.
Ignoring the easily read expression on the doctor’s less than subtle face, the sheriff stuck to business. Thanking the investigators for responding so quickly to her problem, she outlined what her department knew and then said, “Basically Graham and McDermott are lucky to be alive. If they hadn’t reached the ranger’s station, there doesn’t seem much doubt they would’ve died that night.”
“Did your people come across any corroborating evidence,” asked Boles in a matter-of-fact tone. “Specifically forensics evidence—DNA samples, hairs, cells trapped in wounds or torn clothing? Possibly we could identify the creature, or at least its genus if it’s an unknown species.”
“You two sound as if you already believe in this ape-thing,” Blakley interjected with a touch of a sneer. The sheriff, used to the childish manner of staring men, understood the source of his tone. Missing the point, however, Boles answered him.
“The sheriff has the matter of two men, one with serious wounds, who were obviously attacked by something to solve to the satisfaction of those to whom she answers. I, myself, am simply trying to determine if we are spending Mr. Kirowan’s resources wisely. Any number of everyday creatures could have done what has been reported. Although, why a bear or a cougar or whathaveyou would want to do so is altogether another matter. It’s all…”
“I’ve got copies of our lab report here for you with the hospital report,” interrupted the sheriff. Smiling at Boles, she added, “there’s a cassette of Graham and McDermott’s statements, too. At first I was a touch worried this all might be some kind of hoax—make the county’s first female sheriff look like her porch light’s on the fritz, you know? After I talked to the hospital staff, got a look at some of the damage…well, that made it a bit easier to follow along with my deputy’s idea on getting in touch with you gentlemen.”
“Yes, well, what’s next?” asked Blakley. “Interview the victims? Check out the site of the attack?”
“This isn’t the TV, professor. Believe it or not, I’ve got other business to take care of that doesn’t involve hunting swamp creatures. You need to read those reports anyway.”
“Could we meet later?” asked Boles. “Maybe for dinner? Two birds with one stone for all of us?”
“The Swampers’ Cove is just a mile past your motel on the left. Best local food around. I can be there in two hours to compare notes. Good for you?”
“It’s a date,” said Blakley a bit too obviously.
The two professors left the sheriff’s office and clambered into Blakley’s Explorer. Digging through his luggage, the Crypto-Zoologist pulled free a Sig Saur 9mm and strapped it to his belt. Boles eyed the weapon almost with distaste.
“Is that really necessary?”
Not bothering to look at his contemporary, Blakley answered, “Ask either Mr. Graham or Mr. McDermott.”
Boles pursed his lips, but said nothing in response. As Blakley fired the engine of his Explorer, Boles read the sheriff’s report aloud. As he did, Blakley drove south out of town toward the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge. When the reports were finished, he popped the cassette interview into the tape deck. He and Boles listened in silence, both not so much concentrating on what the men were saying, but how they said it. There was fear in their tones—layers of confused shame tried to mask it, but it broke through to the surface anyway, plainly obvious for anyone with experience enough to recognize it.
It was clear to the two men that Graham and McDermott had seen something they did not understand, that they knew in their souls they were lucky to have escaped, and that now they were both bewildered and frightened. When Blakley commented to the fact, Boles nodded.
“Yes, now you’re in my territory. You and yours go after the Loch Ness Monster or something, it’s a big party. Let’s find N
essie. But this, this is something beyond these yokels’ ken.”
“True enough,” agreed the Crypto-Zoologist. “Neither one of these pinheads knows what they saw and now their tiny lizard brains are filled with terror.”
“Maybe,” Boles responded politely, “but I notice you’re the one wearing the gun.” The pair rode to the spot of the attack in silence thereafter.
As the sheriff had promised, the site was easily identified by the familiar yellow police tape that had become a standard across the country. Getting out of the Explorer, Blakley loosened the snap on his holster, then began covering the ground both inside and outside the marked off area. Finding no tracks outside of those obviously made by the Waycross Sheriff’s Department, the Crypto-Zoologist stared up at the large water oak Graham had parked under the night of the attack. Finally, after a moment, he began to climb it. The humidity seized on the slight exertion as an excuse to glue the professor’s shirt to his body. Once well away from the ground, Blakley noticed a thick branch that had been broken nearly completely away from the tree’s trunk. If he was judging the remains of Graham’s tire markings correctly, the outshoot hung directly over the position the Ford had held when parked.
“Boles, come look at this.” As the other man left the area of swamp grass he had been studying, Blakley called down. “Nothing appeared behind those idiots. Something heavy was up here, and recently. Whatever it was simply dropped into their truck.”
Boles stared upward at the broken branch some twenty feet above. Then unexpectedly, he slipped slightly to one side, his eyes rolling upward into his head. Blakley began to descend rapidly, but the other man caught himself. Landing on the ground, Blakley asked, “Are you all right? I thought you were going to faint.”
“No, no, I’m fine. I’ll explain at dinner. First, however, I think it important you come with me.”
So saying, Boles turned and lead Blakley back to the section of grass he had been studying. Pointing down, he asked, “What do you make of this?”
Blakley stared at a footprint—one sixteen inches in length and some seven inches wide at the ball of the foot. He noted that the heel was rounded and perhaps three and a half inches across. That was the merely interesting part, however. What really caught the Crypto-Zoologist’s attention were the print’s toes—all three of them.
SWAMPERS COVE RESTAURANT
“You always walk into a public restaurant with a gun on your hip?” asked Sheriff Fargo of Blakley as he and Boles approached her table.
“Oops, busted,” answered the professor as he patted his momentarily forgotten weapon. Reaching for his permit, he explained, “Forgot to take it off.”
Fargo gave his permit a quick glance, watching his face instead as she asked, “You two bring any more surprises with you I should know about?”
Blakley chuckled and confessed, “Only a 20 gauge, a Browning hunting rifle, ah, there’s a dart gun, a heavy duty net…few other less interesting items.”
“Standard equipment in your line of work?”
“Oh, yes,” answered the professor, quickly warming to the opportunity to brag. “My case studies can be extremely dangerous at times. Once in Indonesia, this dragon…”
“Professor,” interrupted the sheriff, “I’m sure you both have a tankful of tales you could spin, and I’d love to hear some of them later. But, right now, maybe we could concentrate on Graham and McDermott. Could I ask what you two thought of their story?”
Blakley told of the broken branch he had found, as well as Boles’ discovery. The professor outlined how he had subsequently measured and photographed the footprint before filling the impression with plaster. After Fargo assured Blakley she would send a car out to collect the evidence, Professor Boles gave Fargo more to think about.
“I want to say I’m convinced that Graham and McDermott are telling the truth.”
“Their statements match the hospital reports,” agreed the sheriff. “And I doubt either of those two are that good of actors.”
“True enough, Ms. Fargo,” answered Boles. “But that’s not what I meant. I had a psychic vision at the investigation site. I saw the creature plainly—in my mind, of course. It matched their descriptions perfectly.”
Blakley sat with his mouth hanging open. The sheriff exploded.
“What the Hell are you talking about?”
“Forgive me,” answered Boles. “I supposed I should have mentioned it earlier. I’m licensed by the FBI as a field psychic. I’ve helped on a number of their more difficult cases.”
“Don’t talk about this around town, please,” said the sheriff with an exasperated sigh. “This is the kind of thing…”
“Oh, that’s not all,” interrupted Boles. Blakley rolled his eyes, tearing off a piece of bread from the semi-cut loaf in the basket on their table. “You may remember something Graham said in his statement. He claimed that the creature seemed to just disappear at the end. And that when it did, a new smell had replaced the creature’s odor…the smell of sulfur.”
The sheriff, raised in a strong Baptist home, had pointedly ignored that part of Graham’s statement. Knowing where Boles was leading her, she cursed the ice filling her veins, clinging to her spine, as she asked too calmly, “And this is important—because?”
“Because the lingering of a sulfuric after-aroma is a prime indicator of supernatural activity. It’s possible this creature actually did disappear.”
Blakley looked stunned. His mouth still half filled with bread, he spat crumbs as he asked, “You’re saying you think this thing we’re after isn’t real?”
“Real enough,” answered Boles. “It’s just that there may be more to this than we suppose.”
“So what’s next?” The sheriff’s voice was harsh, edging toward mean. “Exorcisms in the town square?”
“Who knows?” added Blakley. “I’ve been thinking that there’s something extremely familiar to me about that print. Large with three toes…like I’ve heard of something from this general area that fits that description.”
Fargo sat back against the fake leather of her chair. She had felt the tendrils of unease flowing forth from Graham and McDermott when they had made their statements, but ignored them. She had kept up her official mask, hidden her actual feelings behind her badge and her inability to accept personal weakness.
Better to ignore their naked fear, she thought, condemn the victim…right, Donna?
Her hands shaking, the sheriff hid them under the table as she said, “You, you two don’t pull any punches, do you?”
“Have to learn the truth, don’t we?” answered Boles. Slapping his hands together, he said, “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”
Blakley handed the Para-Psychologist a menu. The sheriff stared at the white center of the torn bread in the basket, but saw only a whirling pool of maggots. Excusing herself, she called on the power of God to keep her from running as she left the table for the bathroom. She did not bother to try and stop her tears. She was only so strong, after all.
THE GRAHAM HOME; OUTSIDE WAYCROSS
Betty Ann stood in the doorway to Jeff Graham’s bedroom, her straight black hair freshly cut in the China doll style he found so sexy. Of course, Jeff found everything about Betty Ann sexy. She was a tall girl with a full figure, broad but very curvy hips that made her slender waist seem even slimmer. She had tied her plaid shirt just up under her full breasts to accentuate her flat stomach, and to help reveal her plentiful cleavage as well.
The woman knew Jeff was in too much pain to take her to bed, but she wanted to see some of the old desire in him. Ever since he had been mauled out in the swamp, he had been a different man—loud, cruel…frightened.
“Can I get you anything, Jeff?” she asked, trading on her nursemaid role to have an excuse to hang on his door frame suggestively. “Some hot milk to help you sleep?�
��
“And when did you ever see milk in this house? Get me a beer.”
“Alcohol and pain killers,” answered Betty Ann, waggling her finger at him. “No can do, baby. How ’bout some hot tea?”
“Okay, okay, just go get it,” growled Jeff. As his girl friend headed for the kitchen, he called after her, “Hey, how’s Marsh?”
“The Doc is keepin’ him in the hospital again tonight. They’re still not sure he’s over that concussion.”
Jeff listened absently as Betty Ann continued to chatter. Blanking out her words, he stared out through his bedroom window, focusing on the full moon as it crested over the dark row of poplars at the edge of his property. He blinked, then blinked again, feeling his throat go dry. The moon reminded him of the night, of that night, of that thing…he could feel it again in the throbbing pain of his arm. Could feel his bladder weakening at just the thought.
Christ, his mind whispered, gotta get a grip. That’s all I need, the whole town hearin’ about me pissin’ my damn self in my own bed—but, God, that thing…that fuckin’ thing…it’s like I can even smell the motherfu—
And then, a dark shape passed in front of the moon, and Jeff Graham’s straining bladder let loose once more. The man screamed as the glass of his bedroom window exploded inward. Betty Ann raced back to the room, only to scream herself when she saw the shaggy, reddish-brown form rising up from the floor.
“Jesus Christ, Betty Ann--run!”
Jeff tried to get out of bed, but the horrible mass of hair and muscle was on him before his feet could touch the floor. Catching hold of his already injured right arm, it yanked brutally. The limp popped from its joint neatly, muscle and veins tearing, blood spraying the room. Betty Ann screamed again as Jeff’s mouth dropped open and his eyes rolled up into his head. Not finished, the odorous creature grabbed the man up and flung him backward. Then it seized his left foot and started to twist. After several sharp cracks it released its grip.
The Witch and Warlock MEGAPACK ®: 25 Tales of Magic-Users Page 68