Whisper of Blood

by James Dale

  "Okay, tell me everything," Reese demanded as soon as the two men were seated in Harry's Mercedes convertible.

  "Same damned...monster,” Jack said quietly. "But this time...it wasn't hunting me. I saw it all Harry. Every bloody detail. Matt died first. Then Robbie. Then Karen. I didn't see...it...get Jen. Harry...it was so real! I can still smell her perfume for Christ sake."

  "Jesus, Jack...how, how is this even possible?"

  "You’re the shrink. You tell me."

  "Jack...I’m not the dream guy, I'm still researching...still trying to explain your other...talent."

  "Curse," Jack corrected with a sigh.

  "Sometimes even curses can work for good," Harry said solemnly. "When I found out Jen was missing, I called you because your...curse is part of what makes you who you are. Jack, you are the only man I know who has a prayer of finding Jen alive. But...this...changes things."

  "Complicates," Jack admitted. “But it doesn’t change anything. I need to see the house. Just to be sure.”

  Reese didn't have to ask which house, nor did he bother to ask why. He'd seen Jack use his amazing talent, his curse, before; both in a controlled laboratory environment and in the mountains of Northern Maine. "It's gonna be tough to get you in if the state police are still there, but I know the county sheriff. He's Jen's father."

  "Then what are we waiting on?" Jack asked. "I'll do everything I can to find Jen, but you have to get me there first."

  Harry Reese hit the electronic start on his Mercedes and pulled out into the night.

  Half an hour later Harry turned off Highway 96 East and onto a gravel packed, county road. Another fifteen minutes and the powerful headlights of his German luxury car illuminated a simple, white mailbox. Black, two-inch high letters stood out starkly.

  BRANSON.

  The blue and red lights of a lone sheriff's patrol car created surreal shadows among the trees lining the driveway. A pair of deputies stood talking and smoking just behind the yellow crime scene tape circling the front yard, which disappeared around the back of the house. Exhausted though he was, Jack's keen eyes soon spotted a team of two...no three, camo clad men with M4 carbines moving inside the tree line. He hoped they were trained National Guardsmen and not just local good ol' boys. He also hoped they were locked and loaded. The thing from his nightmares wouldn’t go down easily.

  "At least the news vans are gone," Reese sighed.

  Jack nodded silently in agreement. That was the last thing he needed on this horrible day. It has been almost three years since his face had been in the news, but one good picture of him and a half decent reporter searching archived files? It wouldn't be long before...

  "Jack?"

  "Huh?"

  "I said are you sure you want to do this?" Harry asked again.

  "Hell no, Doc," Jack sighed. "But I don't really have a choice."

  Harry searched his friend's face, unsure for a second, then rolled down his window as a one of the sheriff's deputies approached.

  "Dr. Reese? Thought I recognized your ride."

  "Hey George," Harry nodded. "Everything quiet?"

  "Since Bobby Joe threatened to punch that CNN asshole," the deputy grinned. "Who you got riding shotgun?" he asked, leaning in to get a look at Jack.

  "This is..."

  "Andy Hobbson, Professor of Wildlife Studies, University of Maine," Jack smiled, reaching over Harry to offer his hand to the deputy. He had no idea where the words came from, but the lie slipped so smoothly across his lips he almost believed it himself. His former occupation had occasionally required cover identities. Braedan supposed you never lost some talents. Reese raised his eyebrow, but to his credit, it was his only sign of surprise.

  "Professor." One pump handshake. Short and professional.

  "Just Andy," Jack said, flashing the deputy a glowing smile.

  "Sheriff know you were bringing...Andy by, Doc?" George asked.

  "I talked to Bobby Joe about bringing in a…specialist to help this morning," Harry nodded.

  "Okay," George shrugged, "I need to see your bonified’s professor, so I can log you in."

  "Be happy to oblige," Jack sighed, "but I was in such hurry to make my connecting flight in Dulles I'm afraid I left my...bonified’s...in the overhead. Airline says they can probably have my bag to me by tomorrow night at the latest."

  "Forget it," the deputy snorted.

  Jack began thinking quickly of some other believable story, but the deputy kept on talking.

  "...you probably won't see your bag for a week, Professor Andy. If Doc Reese will vouch for you until you get something sent down?"

  "Of course, George," Harry nodded.

  "Good enough for me," the deputy shrugged, as both men climbed out of the Mercedes. "Normally I'd have to call Bobby Joe to get it cleared but..."

  "I imagine it's been a rough day for the sheriff," Jack nodded solemnly.

  "Real rough," George agreed. "That's a nice little scratch you got on your cheek, Andy. One of your animals get too close out there in wilds of Vermont?"

  "Something like that," Jack shrugged. The Al-Qaida assassin who sliced his cheek in a back alley of Jalalabad had been an animal…of sorts. "And I said Maine, George. Nice try though."

  "Just doing my job, Professor," the deputy shrugged. "No offense intended."

  "None taken," Jack assured him. "Front door unlocked?"

  "Ain't no front door Andy," the deputy shuddered.

  "Then I guess I won't bother knocking," Jack replied, ducking under the crime scene tape. "You coming Harry?"

  "Once was enough for me."

  "Clark will go with you Professor Andy," George said. “Watch where you step. It’s a mess. Not technically a crime scene but some foresty boys from Knoxville are coming by in the morning to look at the paw prints.”

  The other deputy, who didn't even look old enough to drink, swallowed hard. From his terrified look, Braedan guessed the extent of the young man's duty today had been crowd control. The way his face turned pale however, he'd definitely heard about the carnage inside.

  “That’s what I’m here for as well.” Jack promised. "Stay behind me, Clark. Clark?"

  The young deputy was still on the other side of the tape.

  "It’s okay son," Jack nodded. Son? He doubted he was ten years Clark's senior. But it wasn't the years that made Braedan older, it was the mileage.

  "Sorry sir," the deputy swallowed again, and stepped under the tape.

  "Breath through your mouth. It’ll help.” Jack instructed him.

  A quick examination of the exterior as Jack walked toward the simple, brick home, told him the Branson's lived...had lived...modest but comfortable lives. The yard was well kept and had a lot of rock work and shrubbery. The shutters could maybe use a fresh coat of paint, but otherwise the house was in good shape. Except of course for the shattered front door. It was where everything ordinary ended and the horror began.

  Jack climbed the front porch steps slowly. Although he could see every light in the house was burning brightly, a foreboding...darkness…hung over the house like an ominous, black veil. He could smell the sickly, sweet scent of blood already. If it was this strong outside, what awaited him inside was going to be...unbearable.

  Jack took a deep breath and stepped through the gaping hole where the front door should have been. As soon as he entered, his talent, his curse, came crashing over his senses like a tidal wave. Everywhere he looked there was blood: on the walls, soaked into to the carpeting, even splattered on the ceiling. Yet it wasn't the sight of so much blood that assaulted him, it was the overpowering feeling of...rage, a lust for rending and tearing flesh and breaking bones that had nothing to do with an animal's primal urge to hunt and feed. The rage he felt was pure...evil, an unholy rage that desired not simply to kill, but to cause terror and despair. Only one thing...one beast...he had ever encountered harbored such hate. Until last night this monster had lived only in his nightmares. Nightmares he thought had been cured.
>
  Not anymore. And now his nightmare had come to life.

  You didn’t have to search for the paw prints. They were everywhere. It had four toes at the front of the pad like a wolf or maybe a lion, but an extra dew claw on the interior of the paw, almost where a…thumb…would be? The digits were segmented as well, like fingers, and the claw imprints were equally as disturbing. From pad to toes the prints had to be close to 18 inches. That was grizzly size and twice as large as an African lion. Whoever was coming up from Knoxville would be useless. The monster who made these prints wasn’t in any zoological reference book. Behind him, Braedan heard the young deputy run from the house and lose whatever he'd had for supper on the front steps.

  Clark didn't know the half of it.

  He’d seen and felt all he needed to. With Clark busy throwing up, Jack left Harry to make apologies or explanations to Deputy George, he didn't really care which, and headed for the doctor's car. When Reese joined him a few minutes later, Braedan had the passenger seat reclined and his eyes closed.

  "Well?" Harry asked, sliding into the driver's seat.

  "It was here," Jack replied quietly.

  "You're sure?"

  "I'm sure." He nodded.

  "Holy Jesus, Jack. How is this possible?" the doctor whispered. “How is this possible?”

  "I don't know Harry," Braedan sighed wearily. He took a deep breath and raised his seat back to upright. "You know any good outdoor shops in Johnson City? I need to go shopping."

  "For what?"

  "What do you suppose will kill a nightmare?" he asked, staring out into the night.

  Though Jack Braedan wasn't sure what would kill the beast of his dreams, he knew what would kill most other predators, both those who walked on two legs and four, and as his friend pulled away from the Branson home, he rummaged through the Mercedes’ glove box until he found pen and paper. All he’d brought with him was the katana. Excellent for close in work but he didn’t plan on getting near enough to this monster for that. He couldn’t legally own firearms anymore. His “plea deal” had seen to that. Violating the terms of his freedom was the least of his worries at the moment. He began to write. By the time Harry entered Johnsonville's city limits, Jack had finished his shopping list.

  "Jack," Harry said, when Braedan handed him his list. "You walk into a gun shop and ask for this, you'll be inside one of Bobby Joe's jail cells quicker than you can say, 'Homeland Security.' Some of these items aren't exactly…over the counter goods."

  "Just find me someone with a healthy dose of paranoia and a love of cold, hard cash," Jack shrugged. "This is Tennessee, ain't it?" he asked, mimicking a half decent southern drawl.

  "Anyone this paranoid will be on an FBI watch list," Harry laughed nervously.

  "That's my man. Can you find him for me?"

  "It'll take a while, but...yeah."

  "You have..." Jack looked at his watch. It was just a few minutes past one in the morning. "...ten hours. I want to be in the woods by noon."

  "That's not much time..." Harry started to argue.

  "Jen doesn't have much time," Jack said bluntly, bringing an abrupt end to the discussion. The pair rode in silence to rest of the way to Harry's home.

  Dr. Reese lived in a one-hundred-year-old colonial in downtown Johnson City. His father, as well as his grandfather, had been born in the house. Both had been local, country doctors, well respected and well learned. Harold Reese III was that and more. He had earned his PHD in general medicine at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville like Reese I and II, but from there Harry had branched off into psychology. During the height of the Global War on Terror, Harry had accepted a direct commission into the United States Army as a Major, and a posting at Walter Reed Army Medical Center. There Major Reese treated soldiers returning from overseas suffering from the most serious forms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. For years Harry worked diligently, earning the respect of staff and soldiers alike, until one day, by accident or fate, he stumbled upon the case of a severely troubled Special Forces operator named Jack Braedan.

  Like everyone else in the country, Reese thought Jack Braedan was rotting away in a Fort Leavenworth maximum security cell. The truth was much more sinister. Washington spooks and Defense moguls were drooling with excitement at the chance to exploit Braedan and the unique ability he’d…developed while being treated at Walter Reed. As a devout Christian, Harry Reese knew he needed to help Jack. Backed by the Braedan family name and their immense fortune, a relentless ACLU lawyer, and a threat of going to the press, Harry had saved Jack from a fate worse than death. It had ended Harry's career in the military and almost landed him in prison, but with his act of moral courage, the lives of the two men became forever entwined.

  Harry returned to Johnson City to assume a local, family practice and Jack disappeared into the secluded mountains of Maine with a new identity and a gift he couldn't explain, but the two men remained close friends. Two or three times a year, Harry would travel to Jack’s cabin at Mount Katadin where he and Jack would drink beer and talk about Jack's strange ability. Well...Jack would talk, Harry just listened, taking pages and pages of notes to aid in his research of Jack's unique gift.

  As Harry pulled his Mercedes into the driveway of his colonial home, there was an internal battle taking place within him. Doctor Harold Reese III wanted to guide his patient to a couch and immediately begin extracting information from the troubled man whose nightmares now seemed to have taken on a life of their own. But Harry his friend knew, above all, Jack needed several hours of uninterrupted, peaceful sleep. When the light came on in his second-floor bedroom window, and he could see the shadow of his wife, Molly, peer out from behind the curtain, the balance tipped and caring friend triumphed over curious physician.

  "Come on Jack," Harry said, turning of the engine, "I'll get Molly to turn down the spare bed."

  "I won't be able to sleep doc," Jack sighed, "Not after..."

  "Oh, you'll sleep all right," Harry replied. "Couple of Meridol, 25 mg of Lorrizan, and a shot of bourbon and you'll sleep like a baby...And," he continued before Jack could interrupt, "You won't dream a wink. The Lorrizan will take care of that. When you wake up, Molly will have you a hot, southern breakfast waiting and I'll have made all the other...arrangements. Do you trust me Jack?"

  "You know I do Harry," Braedan nodded.

  "Then go give Molly a hug," Harry said, nodding towards the front door where his wife waited. "She hasn't seen you in over a year. Tell her she looks as young and as beautiful as ever. Don't say anything about monsters or nightmares, then get some sleep and I'll take care of the rest. Deal?"

  "I don't know what I would do without you, Harry," Jack smiled wearily. It was a lie. What he would do, what he was planning to do, was locked in a case in Harry's trunk.

  "Go on," Harry said, "Make nice with Molly and I'll go get your warm milk."

  "Hey good looking!" Braedan waved, climbing out of the Mercedes.

  "Jack Braedan! You get over here and give me a hug," Harry's wife smiled.

  Jack put on a bright smile, doing his best to wipe away all trace of monsters and blood splattered walls from his face, and did as she asked.

  "...going to sleep all day?" Molly asked, poking her head into the room.

  Jack bolted upright. Sunlight was streaming through the curtains of the bedroom window. "Jesus, Molly! What time is it?" he asked, throwing off his covers and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

  "Don't blaspheme in my house, Jack Braedan," Molly chided, "Guest or not, I'll..." whatever playful threat she was about to make dried up in her mouth when she saw his scars. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" she whispered, forgetting her own rule. "Jack, my God..."

  "Don't worry yourself Molly," Jack sighed, picking his T-shirt off the bedroom floor and slipping it over his head. "I don't remember getting most of them. What time is it?"

  "It...It’s barely past eight," she replied, recovering quickly. "Breakfast will be ready in about ten minutes."
>
  "Where's Doc?"

  "Left before six," Molly replied. "He said to wake you at eight and that he hoped to be done with his errands before breakfast."

  "Thanks, Molly. I'll be down in few. And Molly, sorry about that Jesus thing," Jack smiled, "I'll watch my mouth from now on.

  "Ten minutes Jack Braedan. Don't be late."

  "Yes ma'am."

  Jack was in the middle of wolfing down a heaping plate of bacon, scrambled eggs, and biscuits covered in milk gravy when Harry walked through the kitchen door, kissed his wife on the cheek and grabbed a piece of bacon off Jack's plate.

  "Sleep okay?" he asked, taking a seat beside his wife.

  "Like a baby," Jack replied around a mouthful of eggs.

  "Jack," Molly said warningly.

  "Sorry, ma'am," he swallowed. "Slept like a baby. No dreams."

  "Good," Harry nodded, "Hurry up and finish. We have a meeting at nine. You're going to need to stop by the bank first. Hope you brought your Platinum Visa."

  "This guy have everything on my list?" Jack asked, impressed.

  "Won't know until we get there," Harry shrugged, "But Hal Tunney wouldn’t even talk shop until I have him five hundred in cash and I promised Bobby Joe Hurst would look the other way.”

  “Good Lord, Harry,” Molly cried, “What are you getting yourself into?”

  “Saving Jen’s life, hopefully,” he sighed.

  Ten minutes later, as he and Harry were heading out the door, Molly stopped him and gave him a tight hug. "You be careful out there, Jack Braedan." she whispered into his chest.

  "I'm always careful, Molly," he smiled reassuringly.

  "Sure you are," she snorted. "Just the same, I want you to take this." Molly reached behind her neck and unfastened the clasp of a silver chain and handed Jack her crucifix.

  "Molly, me and the Boss haven’t been on talking terms in a long time," he replied.

  "Just take it Jack," she insisted. "Sometimes bad things happen to good people. It doesn't mean God doesn't love them. God loves you Jack Braedan."

  "He has a damn funny way of showing it," Jack sighed. More to please Molly than for any foolish hope God loved him, he took the crucifix and refastened it around his own neck.