The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels

by Travis Luedke

  He was dizzy from the liquor and the want of sustenance. Maulthaus touched the side of his face as he lowered his lips to the girl’s neck. Maulthaus’ fangs slid out, piercing her flesh with a soft prick. She shivered, but did not fight. She was trained. Her blood tasted sweet when mixed with the whiskey. Unable to control his hunger, Boone took her deep until the pit in his belly was full.

  When finished, he sprawled out on the floor. The girl collapsed in a corner. Boone wasn’t sure she would survive, but he didn’t rightly care. He hadn’t had occasion to feed so deep in years.

  Maulthaus seemed pleased. “God has a plan for you, boy. You are to be one of the defenders of the Aryan race. A great war is coming, greater than any either of us have beheld in our days of soldiering. We’ve been preparing for it for centuries.”

  Boone knew about war. He could tell his host knew it, as well. Despite the dandy dress and fancy talk, Boone recognized another warrior. Being near him made his heart pound like a war drum. He remembered that feeling, he had it when he fought under Houston at San Jacinto, and again when he fought under Governor Jackson in the Battle of Carthage. Later, when he rode with Captain William Quatrill as a Confederate Bushwhacker, he felt the war drums in his heart. When the war ended, he thought they might never return.

  He was pleased to be wrong.

  “What kind of war?”

  Maulthaus smiled at the hunger in his voice. “This will be a war between the chosen people of God, and the Jew-led coalition of lesser races. All the Aryans will be called upon by Christ, our savior to battle the darkness. And you, my boy, will be one of God’s generals.”

  Boone smiled as a trickle of blood ran down his cheek. He stared at the ceiling.

  “A general? I like that.”

  “Of course you do.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I ran alias checks on all the names you gave me.”

  He slid a file across the table. Max took it as James raised a cup of coffee to his lips.

  “Skinheads are just like any other gangster, so they accumulate a bunch of nicknames.” Max opened the file. “Fortunately for you, most of these guys are pretty new.”

  “Oliver North?” Max’s eyes widened. “Ollie’s name is Oliver North? Holy shit!”

  James laughed. “Yeah, like that name needed to be dragged through the mud anymore.” James pulled the lid off his paper cup and inhaled caffeinated fumes. A hint of cinnamon in the steam made Max’s belly ache. “Oliver North may be a right-wing douche, but he’s not a skinhead.”

  “He’d probably break this fat bastard’s neck just for besmirching his name.” Max looked over the page. Ollie had been to prison for assault. You had to beat up a lot of people (or beat up the wrong person once) to actually get prison time for assault. “Did you get a full background on these guys?”

  “Max, I did not. And you know I can’t, so don’t even ask.”

  He looked up at his friend. James had stopped by the coffee shop in uniform. From the look of his otherwise well groomed blond hair and drooping, bloodshot eyes, James had just finished a graveyard shift. More than likely, he’d finished it several hours ago but stuck around to run the names Max had emailed him from Mrs. Soptik’s notes. Max felt kind of bad asking for more.

  “Yeah.” He flipped past Ollie’s file to the next one. It was Leroy Terwilliger. Max was disappointed with that… he was expecting Brown. That would have been funny. “How’s Jon?”

  “We broke up.”

  “Ah, man! I’m sorry. You guys were… you were great. You had that whole two J-name thing…”

  James shrugged.

  “Are you seeing anyone now?”

  “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay. I’ve had a long night. Had a domestic take up the last three hours of my shift. I hate domestics.”

  Max looked over Leroy’s file. It seemed Mr. Terwilliger was a sex offender. He had two counts of sexual battery and one count of sodomy with a minor. Charming fellow. He controlled the rise of bile in his throat by moving on to a more cheerful subject.

  “Do you know Officer Unruh?” James nodded. “How’s he doing since Friday?”

  James shrugged. “He hasn’t said anything to me, but I don’t hardly know the man.”

  Max nodded and looked down at the file. He flipped the page.

  “He seems like a good guy.”

  “He’s married, Max. And I don’t date in the department.”

  Max chuckled. “That isn’t what I meant.” He looked at the third page. “I haven’t met this one… Eugene Maulky.” He tapped the page. “He doesn’t have any arrests?”

  “No. He was harder to figure out. But the name was unusual so I asked this hair dresser I used to know.” Max crooked an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, shut up. Anyway, he’d mentioned some guy named Maulky—”

  “This guy is a hairdresser?”

  “Cosmetologist, Razor. He’s a hair-stylist. He’s got a license and everything.” James flipped the page and tapped a photocopy of a cosmetologist license.

  “So…he does the Aryan’s hair?” Max ignored the unsavory use of his nickname.

  “You moron. You know what kind of chemicals a cosmetologist can buy legally?”

  “Ah...”

  “Yeah, just about everything you need to make bombs and meth, two things Aryans love to cook up in their trailers.”

  “Hmmm…so that likely makes him the highest educated member of the gang.” Max flipped to the next page.

  He recognized the only Aryan in the crew with hair as one of the bikers Max saw the day he and Donald went to visit Mrs. Soptik. Earl Wipperstone was also a sex offender. It was easier to get photos of the sex offenders. The Highway Patrol had them on its sex offender registry web page. Mr. Wipperstone was apparently a convicted rapist. The subtext under the offence listing indicated one or more victims under the age of sixteen.

  “Most of these guys are felons,” Max muttered, flipping to the next page. “Isn’t it a condition of their parole that they can’t associate with other felons?”

  James shrugged and took a long drink of coffee. “Talk to Probation and Parole about that. I’m just getting you the names.”

  Max nodded and went back to the file.

  “Steven Stodder,” he said, running his fingers over the page. This one didn’t have a picture, but he recognized him from the description: a burly skinhead with a bushy moustache. He was the other biker. “Not a sex offender?”

  “No, or else he hasn’t gotten caught yet.”

  The next photo made him wince. “Aryan Warrior,” Max read the tattoo across the wide, bald head in the photograph. “I’ll say this for the skinheads, they don’t keep it hidden. I mean, if you tattoo that on your forehead, you’re pretty much condemning yourself to a life of petty crime.”

  James chuckled.

  “Then again, maybe they don’t think that far in advance.”

  “If it’s the same guy, that’s Gary Dillon. He’s probably the most dangerous one, at least as far as the humans go.”

  Max nodded and looked at the next photo. It was a head-to-toe shot of Dillon without a shirt. Aside from being built like a tank, he was covered with racist tattoos.

  “He’s done hard time for assault, resisting arrest, and almost went down for a murder.”

  “Almost?”

  “The key witness disappeared. Imagine that?”

  Max flipped the page. “That’s it? That isn’t all of them.”

  “Yeah well, the veepees are better at staying out of the system.” He sipped his coffee. “Most of them aren’t even officially alive anymore.” He put down the cup. “What are you going to do with this?”

  “What are you going to do with this?”

  James shook his head. “There isn’t anything I can do with it.”

  “They are making meth and selling kids,” Max tried to keep his voice down. The diner wasn’t crowded, but there were en
ough people here that an outburst would have attracted attention.

  “This isn’t even in the city limits, Razor—”

  “Stop calling me—”

  “Sorry, Max. This is a County thing.”

  “I know some people in JasCo.”

  “Don’t even bother. You’ve got nothing actionable. No witnesses…no one even thinks these kids are real.”

  “The meth?”

  “Yeah, the meth. You know why there are so many meth labs in Southwest Missouri?”

  “All the woods and hollows?”

  “Yeah, but you know why else? Do you know how expensive it is to clean up a meth lab? Those things are toxic waste dumps, and that’s assuming they don’t blow it up or spill anything while it’s getting raided.”

  “Isn’t that what the EPA does?”

  “Oh, listen to you! The EPA.” James laughed. “You work for the government. Do you really think the Environmental Protection Agency has the time or money to clean up every hillbilly meth lab in the four-one-seven area code?”

  “So…who cleans it up?”

  “We pay for it. Well, you pay for it. Every year we get a set budget on how much we can spend on drug crime. Granted, it’s bigger than most of our other budgets, but… it doesn’t go far. This time of the year, busting a meth lab—”

  “Isn’t in the budget?”

  James shrugged and took a long drink.

  “So, a meth lab slash child sex smuggling ring is going to continue to operate because you don’t have the budget to shut them down?”

  “It isn’t like that. If you had something solid… I mean really solid on this meth operation you could get the State Troopers involved. They have a huge budget and would probably even call in the DEA. But you’ve got nothing.” He took a drink of coffee. “And let’s not forget who you’re messing with here.”

  “Skinheads—”

  “The Aryan Volk Alliance, Max. Probably the most dangerous criminal organization in North America. They are the only gang willing to take out Federal judges. John Gotti hired the Aryans to kill a guy the mafia wouldn’t touch. They locked the founder of the gang in that super-secure prison in Texas where he gets a half hour of daylight every twenty-four hours and spends the rest of his time in a box alone, and he still calls out hits on people. This is who you’re messing with, Max. I know they look like a bunch of degenerate white trash…and they are, but they are dangerous. Oh, and then there are the vampires,” he almost said that last part too loud.

  Max stared at him for a few seconds. “The kids—”

  “If you even had one ounce of proof…” James held up a finger. “Even a tiny bit of evidence that this was happening, you could get JasCo sex crimes or the State Troopers all over it. And if the operation involves interstate transit as you say it does, that brings the FBI and the about a dozen other State investigation agencies in on it, too. Except—”

  “The veepees.” Max rubbed his head. “That means—”

  “That means creepy spook-spooks. They’ll swoop in and take over the whole investigation, make the meth lab and the child sex ring vanish… along with all the veepees and whatever the hell else they have out there in the woods. It won’t be in the papers, there won’t be any reports—”

  “Because it’s more important that the Government keep it from getting out.” Max nodded and rubbed his face with both hands. “God dammit,” he whispered into his palms. “This is so gay….” He looked up at James. “Sorry.”

  “No, you’re right.” He waved. “It’s pretty gay.” He finished his coffee. “Is busting them with the law your only play here?”

  Max sighed and rubbed his forehead. “No. But it’s better than the alternative… which isn’t so much an alternative as it is the only possible way to do this.”

  He gave Max a sympathetic look. “If you can prove without a shadow of a doubt that there is a kid in those woods, the police will go in there. But you’re going to need proof, as in a parent describing in vivid detail a skinhead picking up her child and carrying her off.”

  “Not much chance of that, but I can try.”

  “I’m going home,” James said, after a yawn. “Oh, how is Sadie?”

  “Mad at me for doing this.”

  James stood up and put on his hat. “She’s right to be mad at you. This is going to get you killed.”

  Max shrugged and took a drink of coffee. It was starting to get cold. James patted him on the shoulder.

  “Just stop being an ass all the time and settle down. You don’t have super powers or bullet proof skin.”

  “Says the cop.” Max grinned at him.

  James smiled back. “Yeah, but I get to wear a vest and carry a gun.”

  “I carry a gun—”

  “I’m allowed to carry a gun.” James picked up his bag and shook hands with Max. “Be careful.”

  “Yeah, you too.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Max decided to get his mind off vampires and skinheads by dealing with a more human matter. It wasn’t like the rest of the world became less messed up just because Max had to hunt monsters.

  Eileen’s parents were named Raquel and Hunter, and Max hated them. He was not good at masking contempt, but neither of them were particularly clever, so they didn’t appear to notice. Or care… one or the other.

  When Max entered the little family services conference room to chat with them about Eileen’s recent meet-up with Hunter, the first thing Raquel asked was if her baby could come home.

  “That isn’t up to me, Mrs. Dole.” Max sat down across from them and dropped a folder on the table. He couldn’t believe she had the nerve to ask that—it was almost like she was messing with him. “But that isn’t why I called you.”

  “She’s sneaking away from school,” Hunter said from under his pencil-thin moustache. Max wanted to break his coffee mug and shove the jagged edge into Hunter’s neck. As if sensing Max’s intent, he pressed his palm to his throat. Max saw a faded tattoo of an eagle’s head on the back of his hand.

  “How do you know that?” Max didn’t even try not sounding suspicious.

  Hunter smiled, but it was Raquel who answered, “The school called us to let us know. She is still our daughter…”

  “They’re not supposed to do that. I’ll call them and tell them to stop.” He pretended to write that down in his notebook. He knew they were lying, and they knew if he made the call he’d know, too. “In fact, I think I might call them right now.” He drew his phone.

  “All right that isn’t how we know.” Hunter waved his hand. He smiled really big again. “She came by my work.” Max stopped pretending to write and looked up. Awkward silence was an effective tool. “She came by the plant.”

  “Came by,” Max repeated. “Just stopped in for a visit?”

  Raquel looked at Hunter and forced a smile. Max watched her. Deep in her eyes he saw protective motherhood trying to punch through all the layers of simpering co-dependence. She blinked twice and looked away. Anything respectable in her died in Max’s eyes.

  “I didn’t ask her to come by,” Hunter said, waving his hands. “I done told you, I don’t want to get in trouble.” He put his hand on Raquel’s shoulder.

  “What did she want?” Max played along with the lie. Maybe Hunter would say something so ridiculous that Raquel would snap. Unlikely, but possible.

  “She wanted to talk about the baby.” Max pretended to write that down, but didn’t respond to it except to look at him. “She wanted to know about an abortion.”

  “She asked you about an abortion?” He couldn’t pretend to believe that. Some things were just beyond his deceptive abilities.

  “That’s right…”

  “She snuck out of school to walk across town to your place of employment to ask you about an abortion?” He looked at Raquel and hoped this was having some effect on her. It was, but not enough. She grabbed the hem of her skirt and sucked in her lips. When she saw Max looking at her, she looked away.

&n
bsp; Hunter threw up his hands. “I don’t know what to tell ya.” Max watched him. “She still won’t tell us who the daddy is.”

  Max felt like he had a rat loose in his chest.

  “What advice did you give your step-daughter regarding abortions, Mr. Dole?”

  Raquel’s face curled up every time she heard the a-word. That wasn’t an uncommon reaction in this part of the country.

  Hunter rubbed the back of her neck and nodded once at Max.

  “I told her it was her decision, and we’d pay for it. Even though it’s her responsibility.”

  “She’s my daughter,” Raquel almost whispered. “She’s my little girl,” she said after a brief silence. She looked as though she might pitch forward and hit her head on the desk.

  Max bit the inside of his cheek and narrowed his eyes at Hunter. The smell of tar on his clothes was familiar. It mixed with the memory-scent of Eileen’s shampoo and body sweat. He waited a while for Hunter to start talking again.

  “If she does that though, we’ll never know who the daddy is.” Hunter nodded. “That’s what I told her—but that isn’t the important thing.”

  Max wanted to laugh, but he kept it under control.

  “That’s actually not true.”

  Hunter’s pupils widened. He’d have been an awful poker player.

  “Regardless of what Eileen decides to do with her baby, the court has ordered a paternity test—”

  “But if the baby ain’t born—”

  “—they’ll test the amniotic fluid for DNA after she goes in for her physical next week.” He tried hard not to grin. This wasn’t the least bit funny, but it was satisfying. “So, abortion or not, we’ll figure it out.”

  It got cold in there, quick. Max leaned back in the creaky chair and put his feet up on the desk. He rubbed his nose. Going from professional to casual so quickly put them both on the defensive. Their tensed bodies made the folding chairs pop.