“Take me where?”
They have places for kids without parents—awful places, Teddy.
Teddy began to sob again. He trembled through his words. “I. Don’t. Want. To. Go. There. Shadow.”
I know, Teddy. That’s why we have to run.
Teddy hesitated and scanned the room. It was as if he thought the right answer would jump out at him. As if that was what was hiding behind the curtain in the living room all along.
I’m stronger now, Teddy.
Teddy turned toward the hacked bits of insulation and wood that had caved as the shadow tore its way up the steps. Teddy thought that had to require a great deal of strength.
You made me stronger. Strong enough to protect you, Teddy. Let me keep you safe.
Teddy nodded.
Say yes, Teddy. Say I can protect you. Say we are one.
Teddy swallowed, afraid of what would happen next, of what would happen tomorrow or a week from now, but he said it. “Yes, Shadow. You can protect me.”
Say we are one.
“We are one, Shadow.”
The shadow grew taller and pulled from the wall, its eyes gleaming with pleasure. Its hiss burned Teddy’s ears, like it was sharper than it had ever been before. Sirens emerged from the background. Ali must’ve finally made it to her house. But why had it taken so long? Teddy didn’t have long to wonder as the sirens grew louder.
Teddy panicked and looked to the shadow.
Go. Now.
The shadow didn’t wait for Teddy’s response. It clawed through the hall, past the bodies, past the kitchen where the chili was still bubbling on the stove, and out the back door. Teddy followed, looking back once more, still in disbelief at how quickly the last bit of the life he had known had been ripped apart and left lying in a pool of blood—soaking up all the gore of that evening.
Gravel churned under fast tires down the road.
When the shadow stood from its slither, it was nearly as tall as the trees outside Teddy’s window. Before Teddy could think about its claw like limbs or Bella’s corpse stowed at its center, the shadow hissed again.
To the woods. Go to the woods.
And without question, Teddy obeyed.
Part 2
A Vile,
Merciless Killer
1
One Year Later …
Officer Jack Burklow was coming off one of his legendary hangovers when the phone from the kitchen rang.
Burklow tossed in his bed and arched his eyebrows in discomfort and annoyance. After five or so rings, the phone went quiet. But only for a moment before the urgency in the ring beat through the hall again. He pounded a fist into his mattress.
This better be good. Real fucking good.
Burklow kicked his musty bedding off and stumbled to the floor. The sunlight tried to peek through the closed curtains, and Burklow’s headache noticed it right away. He lowered his head and realized the tube socks he put on the night before didn’t match. One was dark green, like the forest, while the other was a bright red. It was the middle of June, and he looked like a fat, grumpy version of one of Santa’s helpers at the mall.
The phone continued to ring. Each shrill shriek of it felt like a mighty, painful flick in Burklow’s head.
“Jesus Christ. I’m coming.”
Burklow held his head in one hand and went to the kitchen’s far wall, just down the hall from his bedroom.
As a creature of habit, Burklow answered his phone the same way, whether he was in the office or at home. “Officer Burklow.”
Heavy breathing sounded from the other side. “Burklow, it’s Finch. We got a call this morning. It’s him. The Williamsons’ son. The body, brutalized. It’s enough to make everyone sick. They’re eager to wrap up the body and go, but you need to see it. They won’t listen to me.”
Burklow rubbed the stubble on his chin, wondering just how many days it had been since he last saw his razor.
“So? Let them wrap it up, Finch. I can meet you at the coroner’s. Actually, I’m not even due in today. I’ll check it out tomorrow.”
Finch exhaled in frustration. “Listen to me, Burklow. Put on some damn pants, take a swig of some mouth wash, pop some Tylenol, and get out here.”
Burklow smiled. “You don’t get to call the shots, rookie.”
That would’ve intimidated the boys, but not Finch. It only ignited her edge. “I do when I’m at the scene. I do when I’m looking at the body. Get to Warren Woods. Now.”
Before Burklow could argue further, the phone on the other side clicked. He wished he knew exactly where Finch was calling from so he could call her back and tell her to shove it.
Instead, Burklow did as he was told. He groaned as he got ready for work on his day off. He hated taking orders from that high-strung newbie. Burklow figured she was all worked up over nothing. He knew he wasn’t supposed to think things like that, but he guessed that nurturing thing that women had made her so hysterical. The Williamson boy wasn’t quite a kid anymore, twenty-three years old, but he knew the boy was just a baby in the eyes of a woman.
“A bunch of bull shit. A huge load of bull shit.”
Burklow pulled on his pants and tied the laces of his boots. When he looked down, he was reminded of his headache once more. It was as if a pack of coins slid from the back of his head and slammed into the front. Then, the pressure split into two and pulsated behind his eyes.
“For fuck’s sake.” Burklow rubbed his temples and then threw open the drawer of his nightstand. There was just a splash of whiskey in the glass above the drawer. He grabbed four Tylenol, placed them on his tongue, and threw the whiskey back. The warmth of the alcohol carried the painkillers down.
Burklow grabbed his gun and his pack of cigarettes. He lit one of the Marlboros and went out the front door of his beat-up house.
Why wouldn’t she just let them take the body? This better be good.
2
Burklow pulled into the eastern edge of Warren Woods—no more than two miles from the Williamson kid’s jogging path each morning.
Call it a hunch, but Burklow figured he was taken further into the woods, in that same direction. He opened the door of his white and brown squad car, rocking his body forward and to the side as he tried to shimmy out without letting his headache split him in two.
A subtle rustling of leaves and snaps of discarded, weak branches sounded at the woods’ open mouth. The steps were soft, but Burklow could tell they were moving quickly. The sun beat into his eyes and pulled his focus from the woods. He lowered his head to his hands and took a long drag on his cigarette with his eyes closed.
“Looking good, Burklow.”
Burklow scowled and released a foul puff of smoke. He saw the petite rookie stomping toward him.
“Ah, Finch’s sarcasm. It’s like a warm hug.”
“Uh, huh. Put that nasty thing out and take these,” Finch said as she shoved sunglasses at Burklow.
When he didn’t move, Finch knocked the cigarette from between his fingers to the ground, stomping on it for good measure.
“Ma’am, don’t make me arrest you on the intent to start a fire in Warren Woods.”
Finch shot Burklow a look that he knew meant, “Can it.”
Burklow cleared his throat and spat nicotine and phlegm into the mud.
Finch cringed. “Charming.”
“Let’s hear it, Finch. What has you all upset about this one? What was so important you had to drag me out of bed on my day off?”
Finch’s stern expression softened, almost saddened. “Wait and see for yourself.”
The further they got into the woods, the less light spilled from between the trees above. The ground was soft, which lightened the pressure in Burklow’s head.
Finch’s petite body led Jack through a fading trail in Warren Woods. Her black, tightly wound bun hit the top of her upper back. After a few
minutes, Burklow could hear mumbling voices. Some of them were mocking what he assumed was something Finch had said. “Hold it right there. I have jurisdiction here too, and you’re not taking it anywhere.”
A roar of laughter followed the high-pitched imitation. Then one of them said, “Honestly, what the hell is she even doing here?”
Another answered, “Yeah, honey. Be sure you didn’t leave anything on the stove when you came out here to play dress-up.”
Burklow eyed Finch, waiting for her to react, but her determination and stubbornness carried her forward, seemingly unfazed.
When they rounded a row of trees, a cluster of four men stood in a circle. They laughed at the one who had his hands on his hips, stomping as he said, “I mean it, boys. You better listen to me. All four feet of me will kick your ass.”
Finch broke through first, and the men cleared out of her way. Burklow turned to the men, grinning, and said, “I’d put good money on her. Now, shut up and get of our way.”
They straightened up and nodded to their boss.
Finch knelt to the ground, and Burklow saw the body.
“What do you think?” she asked.
Burklow rubbed the prickly hair on his chin. The body on the ground had yellow-green stains here and there and even looked a little bloated. The eyes sent a chill through him—the stillness of them. He winced and turned away. His tough facade was fading.
Burklow struggled through the words, “How long has he, it, the body I mean, been out here?”
Finch pointed to the puffing on the side of the man’s stomach. “We’re guessing two days. It’s just like the others, Burklow. Look at his hands.”
Burklow didn’t have to get any closer to see the bloodied mess at the tips of the Williamson boy’s fingers. The last two victims had the same thing. Their fingertips weren’t a soft pink, but a blend of red and white splotches with bloodied strings feathered around the edges. Burklow figured those were the pried-up roots of the nailbed.
Finch sighed. “Burklow, a kid found him. And I mean a kid, younger than him.” She pointed to the body. “Someone reported an odor out this way. The ranger assumed it was a dead animal, so they called the groundskeepers to remove it. Their summer help is a kid, fourteen years old.”
It was freaky, it was foul, Burklow could understand that. Still, the nurturing thing, he thought, was beaming through Finch.
Burklow clapped his hands together, signaling they were finished there and said, “Okay, Finch, I’ll get the kid who found Williamson in touch with a trauma counselor or a shrink. How’s that?”
One of the officers in the circle behind them laughed. Burklow waved them away. “Go on, boys. Get out of here.”
They obeyed, pleased to be off the hook from any work that morning. They piled into their squad cars and would likely go back to a leisurely day of staking out traffic lights.
Burklow nodded to the coroners, and they unfolded a large white-toned zip-up bag.
“Burklow! What are you doing? We don’t have all information yet! Something could be different here. We have to check it out.”
Burklow raised his hands to his forehead and dragged them down to his chin.
“Finch, come on. I’m supposed to be off today. There’s nothing more we can do. I know he was just a kid. It’s awful. It is—”
Finch rose and stomped closer to Burklow. She pointed her finger in his face. “That’s not what this is about.”
The coroners lined the body bag with a preservation mist as one gave Finch a look of annoyance. “Miss, we need to begin the autopsy. We have a family to inform, and to do that, we have to have a certain identification of the body formally.”
Finch shot a look at the man. He was quiet.
“Burklow, we owe it to the Williamsons. We owe it to the Byers. We owe it to everyone else this guy might have gotten before he came here.”
Burklow sighed. The new officer had heart and resilience—two factors he reminded himself were key to being a good cop. He had fallen lazy. He knew it. Everyone did. But Finch was the first who expected more from him.
“Fine. I’ll humor you.” Burklow looked to the men in front of the hearse, “We’ll be a few more minutes.”
One of the two men began to protest. The other, looking at Finch’s sternness, nudged him. They returned to their vehicle and cracked the windows. Soon the smell of cigarettes blended with decay.
Burklow felt the Tylenol easing the pressure in his head. He removed the sunglasses and got closer to the body. Finch dug into one of her pockets and pulled out a round, blue container of Vick’s Vapor Rub. She dipped two polished red fingers inside and wiped the spread in two lines under her nostrils. Finch shoved the container at Burklow, and he did the same.
“Come around to the back. It would be best if you saw it from the right angle.”
Burklow followed her instruction and squatted next to the top of the man’s distressed Levi jeans.
“I know we can’t move it, but try to look under him,” Finch said.
Deep oozing incisions started on the man’s side and, seemingly, went clear across his back. The marks were a blaring crimson color with patches of dry purple surrounding them. Torn flesh hung loosely from the wounds where the skin was separated by what appeared, at first glance, to be claws.
Burklow raised his eyes from the body to find Finch staring at him, waiting for him to catch on. “The cuts?”
Finch nodded, but her eyes said, “And?”
Burklow didn’t see what Finch wanted him to see. She called to the coroner, “I need a cleaner and cloth.”
Burklow stopped her, “Wait a minute. Did they already take photos?”
Finch nodded, seemingly insulted that Burklow would even suggest such carelessness from her.
The man handed Burklow the cloth, bypassing Finch. She snatched it without apology or explanation, which made Burklow grin.
With her gloved hands, Finch swiped the cloth in the arch of the man’s back.
“Come here.”
Burklow moved to the other side of the body.
“See here. There are several marks. Several cuts. Going up the back. You can tell on the sides here,” Finch’s fingers followed the man’s hips to his shoulders. “The cuts get bigger, deeper even.”
Burklow got what she was saying. The cuts, the fingernails, the swollen joints—like the two others they had found in the last month, the Williamson kid had been tortured. The open rawness of the wound likely accelerated the decay.
“Finch, how long was this boy missing?”
She stood and removed the gloves from her hands. “Seventy-two hours.”
Burklow wondered exactly how much of that time the poor Williamson boy, the one who had taken his daughter to her first dance, had spent suffering.
He snapped out of it. Jesus. Finch’s empathy is contagious.
Still, the shock was there, and it melted away the fatigue from the night before.
“I think we need help,” Finch said. “I know a guy. He’s been out of the game for a bit, but he’s dealt with something similar and is really good at putting things together. We were in training together here.”
Burklow nodded, pleased to hear the workload on this case would be divided even further. “Great. Let’s call him in.”
Finch shook her head. “He’ll need some time to get here. We’ll have to call his station to get his information. I don’t have it, but I’m hoping he’s still around.” She looked to Burklow, “Do you remember the Warren and Blackwood cases?”
Burklow nodded. “Yeah. In that little township.”
“Yes. The one in Indiana. It wasn’t quite southern, maybe central. Not too far from Indianapolis.”
Burklow remembered that one. The murders with the missing kids.
“That officer has quite the reputation, Finch. As I understand it, he’s not working much anymore.”
&n
bsp; Finch balled her gloves into a fist. “We need him. I need him. This isn’t going to stop, Burklow. We need his help.”
Burklow sighed, “Pain in the ass.” He raised his hands, admitting defeat. “Fine, fine. What’s his name again?”
Finch smiled, “Strode. Officer Strode.”
3
Strode knew he was only one more outburst from handing in his gun and badge. He felt the anxious beats pulsate through his body.
He saw her again yesterday. It was a routine traffic stop, but when Strode approached the car, little Jackie Warren stood before it, her short frame barely visible through the fog.
Strode tried with all his might to close his eyes, look away, and tell himself she wasn’t there. When he looked back, in the center of the road, a few steps closer, Jackie Warren still stood there. He couldn’t see her face, but he knew the red and yellow colors of her Winnie the Pooh pajamas.
No matter how many times he looked away and looked back, she was still there. And every time, Strode followed her. He had to know if it was really her, or if it was an informative illusion, luring him to an answer, to closure.
Strode had stepped right past the vehicle he’d pulled over, ignoring the complaining high school speedster. Strode stepped into the fog, his arms stretched before him, ready to embrace the lost Warren girl. When he closed his arms around her, he was only hit with the weight of his own hands and disappointment.
He was getting so tired of the unyielding sense of defeat he carried from not finding Jackie Warren. It was ruining his life.
Strode fell to his knees and beat his hands into the pavement, yelling, “Come back, please! Come back!”
No one was there to hear his cries except for the teen who called from his car, “Hey, man. What the hell are you doing? Are you tripping out?”
Gravel was churning behind them.
It was another squad car. It pulled up slowly alongside the kid and cranked the far window down. The officer inside said in his deep, grumbling voice, “Get to school, Fletcher, and slow your ass down, or I’ll call your father.”
Take Your Turn, Teddy Page 12