Breathing deeply, he steadied his pulse before mustering the courage to peer into the holes again. Adjusting his eyes to the darkness, he located the gooey substance. It encompassed the entire circumference of the hole. The thick and viscous substance appeared to undulate. Ugh. Was it alive? Without warning, the substance contracted and withdrew into the hole like an arm being pulled through a sleeve. He lost his balance, falling on his butt on the dirt. He sat stunned. What the fuck did I just see? As his wits returned, he started to grasp the vulnerability of his precious butt. He currently sat at the bottom of a grave previously occupied by his murdered freak of a wife and her similarly dispatched nightmare of a pet. Scrambling, he stood, heedless of the cold soil still clinging to his normally impeccable attire.
“Give me a hand, for Pete’s sake.” Extending his arm, they hoisted him up out of the empty grave.
“What did you see down there, Robert? We heard you scream.” Sheriff Hudson brushed at the soil clinging to Robert’s pants.
“Do you mind?” He slapped Hudson aside, his natural annoyance masking his reaction to the frightening discovery. “I did not see anything. The bodies are gone because one of you bastards stole them.” Deflecting from his own cowardly behavior, he went on the offense. He fixed them with one of his famous ill-tempered scowls. “I better not hear about this again. From anyone; is that understood?” He watched as his macho thugs nodded slowly, confusion and fear unwilling companions. Satisfied, he wasted no more time. Pointing, he ordered, “I want this grave filled in, then get the sedan and let’s get the hell out of here. Eli, Hudson, let’s go.” Turning his back on everyone, he almost ran to the sedan, vowing to himself never to come near the farm again.
The ride back to town took forever, the three men clearly burdened with individual thoughts regarding the mysteries of the produce and the empty grave. They left Hudson at his office with nary a word. Ten minutes from home, Robert turned to Eli.
“I want you to take the whole crew and any equipment necessary back to the farm—this weekend. Cut down every tree in the orchard, down to the roots. Then burn them; every last one. Burn any berry bushes you find.” His expression impassive, he turned to Eli. “And burn the cabin while you’re at it.”
“I got it boss, but the orchard? We might be able to make some good bucks off of that fruit. And the seeds could be really valuable if they matched the results she got. We could get a fancy penny for the new bakery if you throw in the orchard.” Eli’s homely mug revealed a spark of intelligence previously overlooked by Robert. Impressed, he strove to take a gentle tone. He clapped Eli softly on his mule-like shoulder.
“Seeds, you say? Hmmm … how mindless of me. Search the outbuildings until you discover where her seeds are stored. And burn them. I want all evidence obliterated. When the job is complete, you may join me in the library for a brandy while you make your report. You do understand, don’t you, that we will never speak of my departed wife and her devilry again?”
“Yeah, Boss. I get it.” As Eli turned into the gravel drive of Sunnydale, Robert admired the solid comfort and confidence of the magnificent mansion. As ostentatious as some may think it, his home represented the security and normal, quantifiable sanity of his life. Tipping the back of his hand to Eli as the sedan departed for the carriage house, he stepped into his elegant foyer. Its Waterford crystal chandelier swayed amiably, another welcoming affectation of his privileged life. Like a switch, he felt transformed. Smug pleasure strengthened his posture as he loudly called out to Martha, announcing his return and depositing all memory of his late wife’s (shall we call them, peculiarities?) into the callous dustbin of his brain.
###
Eli wiped the back of his chalky lips with a sweaty paw. He was dog tired and as thirsty as a squalling babe searching for its mother’s swollen tit. His muscular frame ached from the exertion of the last two days, but they actually completed the job on schedule. Course, hiring a dozen extra hands helped. He surveyed the field … the waste, pitiful. His men, spent and hungry, hurried to light the bonfires. He planned to let them burn down by nightfall when the fires would become more noticeable. He didn’t think the boss would appreciate it if the adjoining farmers came pokin’ round his business.
He blew his nose into his hand, slinging it to the ground as he remembered his orders to locate and burn the seed supply. Absently wiping his hand on the back of his canvas workpants, he ambled down the road and up the hill to the barn. He stood under the very wooden support used to hang Netty as he stood wearily looking around the cool interior. The sweet aroma of cow manure, fresh hay and dried horse sweat still permeated the empty barn. No way did they use the barn to store the large quantities of seed he expected to find. Not enough room. Turning away, he hawked dryly on the ground, berating his rotten luck. Now, he was going to have to tramp behind the cabin to the distant outbuilding near the bakery that he suspected held the seeds. Sheeit. Having spotted a few rattlesnakes in the stone wall along the orchard, he knew the field might harbor a few late lurkers as they lay ready to ambush unsuspecting field mice. Sighing out loud, he shook his head and picked up the jar of petrol he planned to use, simplifying the ignition of the fire. Okay, let’s go break that bitch, he groused to himself, pathetically trying to gin up some energy for the trek.
It didn’t take long to cross the deserted field. The hot sun, now low in the western sky, failed to reach the eastern part of the field behind the cabin, making the large but almost windowless shed appear foreboding and gloomy. Spotting a fallen tree branch, he fashioned a torch out of dried grasses held together by his pocket handkerchief, soaked conveniently in the petrol. Admiring his cleverness, he pulled out a book of matches and lit the torch, grateful for the bright light. Holding the torch high, he pulled the stubborn door wide, juggling his torch and the jar of petrol. Scanning the storage space, he spotted enormous black earthen jugs near the only window in the place, its panes filthy and useless. The jugs lay on their side in disarray. Curious, he made his way to the window, kicking aimlessly at the jugs, all of them empty. Husks crunched under foot as he realized someone already beat him to the seeds. As his torch cast shadows suggestively on the walls, lovers entwined in macabre antics, he considered his next move. Distracted, he felt the shadows mock him as he pondered a plausible story for the boss.
Deciding to retreat back to the field, he turned to go, spotting a large dark round hole in the corner of the shed. Was that movement? Eli leaned over, holding his torch high, the jar of petrol safely clutched tightly to his chest. Peering into the corner along the floor, he failed to spot anything. His eyes lifted off the floor to study the hole. It looked familiar. His neck prickled with a persistent feeling of surveillance. He slowly started to back up, telling himself he needed to get out of there anyway. Turning, his eyes swept up to the ceiling, the sight stopping his heart in mid beat. The thick fibrous and glistening thing hung in the air like a slobbering viper preparing to strike. He froze. As his brain registered the fact that the thing projected from the round hole, he remembered where he last saw the identical holes. His bowels loosened, soiling his workpants. As the stench filled the shed, he thanked God for the torch. The thing appeared to study the fire as it hung in the air over his head. “That’s right, you freaky mother fucker. Don’t like the fire, do ya?” His courage elevated a notch as he continued his retreat, clutching the torch higher. That’s when the torch suddenly threw off a spark. The thing jerked back, causing Eli to jerk reflexively. Off balance, he dropped the torch. In his backward panic, he stumbled, losing his grip on the petrol jar, sending it crashing to the floor to explode on the still flaming torch. As fire rushed to the petrol, liberally splashed prodigiously on his soiled pants, his eyes barely registered the thing withdrawing into the dark hole. Then the fire quickly swallowed his eyelids and he saw no more.
###
Robert slowly replaced the telephone receiver. He felt kicked in the stomach, shock and disbelief leaving his hands shaking. He picked up the telephon
e, its weight suddenly ponderous as he dialed the number.
“Let me speak to him, Hilda.” He waited for Sheriff Hudson to pick up the telephone.
“Hello, Robert. I guess you heard.”
“Have you been to the site yet?”
“I’m going out there now. I’ll let you know what I find.”
“You had better let me know everything. I’m not paying you to hold back information.” Robert’s voice gave an embarrassing crack.
“What are you worrying about Robert? Think the place is cursed?” Robert wondered at the undercurrent of bitter amusement in Hudson’s voice. Deciding to let it pass—the shock of Eli’s death, after all—he barked an abrupt goodbye and hung up.
Chapter 10
Sheriff Hudson hung up the telephone after talking to Robert Doyle. Even though the guy was a sanctimonious shit and an evil one at that, he still called the shots. He certainly did not plan to hold back any information of the disturbing kind, if he found any. No way. Why miss out on an opportunity to personally cause a worthless piece of dog crap some discomfort? He sensed Robert’s growing concern with the events at Netty’s farm. If you call festering anger and misplaced righteous indignation, concern.
Hudson leaned back in the swivel oak desk chair in his office at the station, hearing the familiar squeak of the springs giving him a reminder of the perpetual admonishment that always accompanied his shame and guilt when he thought of the money he took from Robert to look the other way. In for a penny, in for a pound; the longer he took the money, the deeper he sank, until he found covering up murder commonplace.
He never understood why Robert felt the need to rape and murder his mother-in-law while paying a trumped up social call at the farm. He never offered a reason or an apology. Together, they concocted the lone gypsy story for public consumption. The cover stories became more and more facile as the murders increased. A few deflowered farm girls after Robert and Eli finished with them, a missing competitor that gave rise to a new business opportunity for Robert, and Netty’s own death, along with the unfortunate creature she kept as a pet that made the mistake of catching Eli’s sadistic eye. And these were just the murders he knew about.
He glanced up at the photograph of his family. His wife, Marne smiled back at him with the same look he fell in love with over thirty-five years ago. His eyes paused as they took inventory of his three healthy children, two now grown with young children of their own. He loved them all; even as his heart ached over the exclusion in the photo of his first born, Emily. Only he and Marne knew of her existence anymore, his parents and in-laws long passed away. The tears and wrenched guts never stopped, even long after they accepted the necessity of putting Em in a caring home that could give her the professional help her condition required. The move to Newtown to take the available position of sheriff followed soon after her placement.
Em thrived at the home yet never achieved more than the skills of a five year old. Only the fact that she enjoyed impeccable care in a homey loving atmosphere made the separation bearable. Once a month, Marne packed their bags and off they went to visit Em, six hours away in upstate New York to spend whatever remained of the weekend with their girl. She would always be their baby, even as she now broached her thirty first birthday.
They made the decision to keep her existence a secret because of the judgmental stigma they thought their other children might be saddled with. Yet it took the intervention of Robert Doyle, like the snake in the Garden of Eden that enabled them to pay Em’s bills and actually try to have more children. In the beginning, he asked himself, why not, everyone did it in one form or another. He snorted bitterly as he judged himself harshly. What a stupid greedy ass he had been. Marne did not know, of course. He never could face her if she found out. She called him her hero, and his kids thought their father epitomized a good moral man. Little did they know the extent of his mushy clay feet. He lost all respect for himself long ago. Hudson fingered the metal of his sheriff’s badge, worn proudly on his shirt; a pathetic disgrace. He reached up, running his blunt fingers through his thick white hair, still amazingly intact, worrying it until most of the hair stood on end. He just wasn’t sure how much more he could take from Robert Doyle. His neurosis over safely detaching from Robert’s malignant clutches completely subordinated the ominous implications of the discoveries made at the farm; the strange and weird parts of Netty’s body, her unusual pet and the extraordinary magnificence of her crops. He tucked the lurking questions away as he prepared to drive to the farm with his deputies to collect the body and start the investigation.
Sheriff Hudson stood in the field behind the cabin as his deputies poked through the wreckage of the shed where Eli’s body rested. He held a handkerchief to his nose, futile efforts to block the smell of wet cinder and cooked meat. He ordered Eli’s charred corpse remanded to the meat wagon for further examination by the county coroner. While poking through the paltry carcass of the ruined building, they discovered a round hole in the ground where the outside wall used to stand. With the exception of the charring and smaller size, the hole appeared to be a dead ringer to those found in Netty’s grave, an unlikely coincidence. Hudson wondered what Eli found interesting enough to brave walking through a field of rattlesnakes. They spotted two eastern diamondbacks sunning on rocks as soon as they entered the field.
And what about the hole; Jesus H. Christ, are you kidding me? Something mighty weird and damn serious is going on here. Hitching his pant legs up over his boots, he trudged through the smelly debris to reexamine the hole. Squatting down, he felt the hard burnt edge, wondering what would cause plain ordinary dirt to look like it was burnt; and only on the edges. He didn’t think it occurred from the fire in the building. The burn was too regular, not natural. Remembering the holes in Netty’s grave, he slid his hand into the hole, rubbing the sides of the wall, feeling wet gloppiness. Quickly extracting his hand, he wiped the residue on his handkerchief, carefully rolling the sample and placing it safely in his pocket to send to the laboratory. If he used Robert’s name he could probably get the results back in a week. Not that he expected to find anything worthwhile.
Kicking his feet aimlessly through the rubble, he meandered away from the shed’s remains, making his way carefully through the field to his police car. Sliding behind the wheel, he rested his head on the back of the seat, his eyes closed. He felt a shudder of weariness snake through his body. Elusive sleep played a mean game of catch-me-if-you-can, tormenting him relentlessly since the murders. He rubbed his tired eyes, enjoying the sensation while he refused to let his mind give credence to the coincidence of the holes. As he started the patrol car, he felt a rumble in his stomach. Not knowing if he wanted to vomit or defecate he pushed the thoughts of horror from his mind and headed to town.
###
“I have Roger on the line, Sheriff.” His secretary stood at his door to deliver the message, her interest in the call ill-concealed, as usual.
“Okay, Hilda, I got it.” Picking up the telephone, he could hear Hilda softly pick up the extension. No time for delicacy.
“Hilda, can you please give me a little privacy?” Hudson winced as he heard Hilda give an offended “harrumph.” But she got off the line.
“Hey, Roger, thanks for getting back to me so fast. Mr. Doyle will be sure to show his appreciation.”
“No need, Sheriff Hudson, always happy to help out Mr. Doyle. If he needs anything else, you be sure to let me know, you hear?” Roger’s voice oozed so much ass-kissing, Hudson swore his own butt tingled.
“Yes, of course, Roger, now how about those results?”
“Well, Sheriff, now that’s another matter. I think you need to come to the laboratory. I don’t think we should discuss this over the phone.”
Impatience crept into Hudson’s voice as he informed Roger he had no intention of driving four hours to New York City and then four hours back to Newtown for some stupid laboratory results. Hudson took a breath, forcing himself to calm down as his voice develo
ped a shrill tone.
“Well now, Sheriff, no need to get all riled up. I am just trying to be discreet; for Mr. Doyle’s sake, of course.” Hudson slapped his forehead, his frustration doing a slow simmer.
“Roger, can you please just give me the results? Paleeease?”
“Okay Sheriff Hudson, if you insist. Don’t forget to tell Mr. Doyle about my concern for discretion.” Hudson rolled his eyes, closing them painfully, wondering when this would end.
“The substance you sent me is organic. I found a system of three types of cells in what I can only conclude is a type of plasma. But there seems to be an absence of white cells. You cannot survive without white blood cells. They fight infection in anything alive. And I am unable to identify the three types of cells present. They do not exist in any species on this planet. Yet, they are definitely organic. Yes, yes, an organic life form of some type; all very confounding, but not the most amazing discovery. By the way, did you see the creature that provided the sample?” Ignoring the question, Hudson’s attention perked up measurably.
“Roger. What exactly did you find?” Lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, Roger continued.
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