* * *
With two incredible leaps, Scrub had first reached the roof of his doghouse, and then cleared the chain link fence which, up until that moment, had served as the big dog's pen. The instant that his paws touched the ground, he was at full stride and heading into the woods behind the trailer. The dog never hesitated, not for a second, nor did it turn to look back at its owner who was standing by its pen with his mouth agape.
Cane felt abandoned and a little betrayed. He stood next to the pen for a full three or four minutes trying to grasp what had just happened. Scrub hadn't run since he was a puppy, and Cane could not recall him ever moving as quickly as he did moments ago.
What the hell is going on? Unless . . .
"Coons!" he declared. It all made perfect sense to him now. The same family of raccoons that had gotten into the trash on his back porch last week was on the prowl again tonight. Only this time Scrub saw them, and now he was chasing one down in the woods. He hoped that the big dog would kill the whole damn clan of them. He recalled the day after their last foraging with disgust and anger. Hung over and almost naked, he had spent the better part of a whole morning picking up after the creatures.
"Get em' Scrub!" Cane hollered. "Get em' boy." He kept on bellowing encouragement to Scrub until his throat ached. He was proud of his dog. He saw the mongrel in a whole new light now, and he was anxious for his return. Still, the mosquitoes were becoming uncooperative outside, and Cane decided to ease on into the back door. As he approached the steps, he remembered how Scrub was glaring earlier at the opening beneath the porch. He quickly made another brilliant deduction.
Son of a bitch! Coons under my trailer!
A rustling sound, like the shuffling of leaves, poured out from the opening below the porch almost the moment that he envisioned the raccoons under his home. That was all the convincing he would need. Fueled by his desire for revenge, and excited over the prospect of killing an animal, he hurried back into his trailer in search of some necessary equipment.
He emerged moments later. He hoped nobody could see him. Even Cane realized that his outfit must look ridiculous, but it seemed appropriate for such an absurd endeavor. And on second thought, to hell with what anybody else thought.
He was still crammed into his tight cut off jeans, only now he was also wearing a headlight and white rubber boots. There was a large garbage bag pulled half way through one of his belt loops.
The light fixed atop his head was not very bright. It was held fast by an elastic strap that was equal parts red, white, and blue. The strap was thick and tight, and it hurt like hell to wear it. Extending from the bottom of the light was a black electrical cord. The cord was connected to a couple of posts on a grapefruit sized battery that he was holding in his left hand.
In his right hand Cane still held the glossy steel of the 9mm. He was really looking forward to killing a raccoon with it. The garbage bag hanging from his left hip was for cleaning up the carcass, just in case he did manage to get one. The rubber boots were the easiest and quickest to put on out of all of his footwear. That was the only reason he wore them.
It was time. He was ready. Cane sprayed about half a bottle of insect repellant all over his exposed body before stepping down from the porch deck. He got down on his knees and elbows, lowered his head, lowered his body even more, and then was able to squeeze beneath the porch. Straight ahead, less than ten feet away, his headlight shined through the opening in the vinyl skirting and into the oil colored blackness beneath the trailer.
Coon killing time.
As he made his way to the opening, the ground beneath him changed from grass to mud.
I'm gonna have to take another damn shower.
* * *
From the northwest corner of the trailer, the farthest away from the opening, the ghoul stared at the pale moonlight beaming through the hole. Silently, in its makeshift den of vinyl, pipe, insulation, and moist earth, it lay in wait for Cane Connally.
The Peacock Angel: Rise of the Decarchs Page 18