The Montauk Monster

by Hunter Shea

  “Guuuunnngghh.”

  There it was again!

  It was just off to his right. If his ears weren’t playing tricks on him, it sounded like it was coming from somewhere low to the ground.

  He took a deep breath, pointed the flashlight down and swept the reeds aside with one quick motion.

  Something skittered in the dark, rolling away from the light and deeper into the reeds.

  “Stop!” Dalton barked.

  A pair of eyes peered at him. Dalton couldn’t make out the face.

  “Please don’t shoot,” a shaky voice said.

  Dalton exhaled. He knew that voice.

  “Can Man, get the hell up,” he said, slipping his gun back in his holster.

  “Is that you, Officer Dalton?” the older man said, pushing himself to his feet.

  Can Man emerged from what he thought was the safety of the reeds, his hands held high. Dalton knew that their annual summer eccentric often slept on the beach. Normally, he’d assume it was Can Man snoring up a storm, but after last night, his instincts were off-kilter.

  “You can put your hands down,” Dalton said. “You’re not in any trouble. It’s my fault for coming in all commando.” Can Man held a hand over his chest and smiled. Dalton asked, “You all right?”

  “Just a galloping heart. It’s good for the blood flow.”

  Dalton put a hand on his elbow and helped him out of the reeds. A particularly large wave slammed into the beach. Flecks of the distant spray carried on the wind pelted their faces.

  “I’m sorry for waking you up, Can Man. But maybe you should reconsider sleeping on the beach for a while. You heard about what happened?”

  “No way not to know.”

  Of course he did. For an itinerant homeless man, he was plugged right into the heart of Montauk. The locals had a soft spot for him. He’d seen plenty take the time to shoot the breeze while he went about his daily routine.

  “Any chance you were camping around here last night?”

  Can Man shook his head. “I was out at the other end, by Fort Bay Pond. There was a wedding over at Garbo’s and they had a big party at the beach. I stuck around to watch them from a distance. It was nice. I only came out here because I figured lightning wouldn’t strike twice in the same spot. Plus I knew folks like you would be on patrol.”

  Dalton clapped him a couple of times on the back. “You got somewhere else you can go tonight; somewhere away from the beach?”

  “I always have alternates.” He dusted sand from his baggy Bermuda shorts and shirt. “You have any leads?”

  “Not yet, but we will. Until then, I want to make sure you stay safe. I have four shopping bags of beer cans in my house and I’m too lazy to redeem them. I need to keep you around.” They chuckled, staring out at the ocean.

  Something caught Can Man’s attention in the rolling surf. He tapped Dalton on the upper arm and pointed. “You see that?”

  Dalton squinted but saw nothing. “Tell me what you see. Maybe I’ll be able to pick it out of the dark better.”

  “It could be some Styrofoam or a bag. It’s round and light in color, hanging out before the waves break.”

  Dalton stepped closer to the incoming tide. He finally saw what Can Man was pointing at. He was right. It looked like one of those foam floats used all around the island—they were used to mark where nets had been cast, as lines of demarcation, you name it. Those things broke free all the time.

  “I see it. Just garbage.”

  “Then why isn’t it coming in with the waves? It looks like it’s fighting the surf.”

  Dalton was about to tell him he was crazy when the blob darted away from them with a speed that was anything but natural. Before Dalton could react, it was gone.

  “That’s some pretty fast-moving garbage,” Can Man said, his mouth hanging open.

  Dalton was about to run along the beach to track it when his radio crackled to life. It made them both jump.

  He stepped away from Can Man to take the call from dispatch.

  “Are you sure it’s an animal attack?” he asked.

  “That’s what the woman’s husband said. An ambulance is en route.”

  “I’ll be there in three minutes.” He waved Can Man over. “Listen, do me a favor and hole up somewhere safe tonight, okay? If you see any stray dogs sniffing around, don’t approach them.”

  Can Man looked worried. For all Dalton knew, he should be. But he wanted him to be aware. It could save his life.

  “I will.”

  Dalton jumped in his car and sped away from the beach. He watched Can Man double-time it as he power walked the path away from the beach.

  Kelly James wiped heavy beads of sweat from her forehead and chest. Her pajamas were soaked to her skin. She felt disgusting, but didn’t have the strength to get up and put on something new and dry. Hell, she couldn’t even call out for her mother at the moment.

  When she realized earlier that day that there was no way she would make her reunion date with Joey, she cried. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get ready. She kept throwing up into her small, pink garbage can every time she lifted her head from the pillow. She tried calling Joey but he didn’t answer his cell. Same with the texts she sent.

  He had a bad habit of leaving his phone in his car’s console. But sooner or later, he always realized it and would check his messages. Not today. That’s how she knew he was pissed. It was over.

  By late afternoon, her tears over Joey had turned to sobbing for the state she was in. She was terrified to look at her foot. The pain in her ankle was excruciating. There were a couple of times she swore someone had poured acid on her. At one point, she actually passed out from the pain. That must have been when her mother checked on her, thought she was in normal sleep and left dinner on a tray as well as a note telling her that she and her father were going to the Newmans’ to play cards. They’d be home late.

  Somehow, when she woke up, she managed to turn on her AC and directed the cold air right at her bed. She did so without looking down at her legs. If she didn’t see anything, nothing could be as wrong as it felt.

  The AC was unable to quell the fire that had been building up inside her.

  All thoughts of Joey were distant and inconsequential. Her tongue felt like shaved wood. Her eyes itched and burned like there was harsh soap in them.

  The only thing she wanted was for the blaze to stop. Kelly was on fire. She just couldn’t see the flames.

  CHAPTER 10

  Dalton arrived at the same time as the ambulance. It was from Southampton Hospital. He’d never met the two female EMTs before. They were met at the door by Les Salvatore. “Come in, quick! My wife is hurt real bad.”

  “After you,” Dalton said to the serious-looking EMT. She nodded and was followed by her partner. Dalton looked over his shoulder to see quite a few lights flickering on in the surrounding houses. This would be the talk of the neighborhood tomorrow.

  He wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted him when he walked into the living room. The man’s wife was stretched out on the couch. One leg rested on the coffee table, the bottom half wrapped in a bloody towel. She was crying, great heaving sobs. He could hear the pain in her voice.

  One of the EMTs bent close to her and asked, “What’s your name?”

  The woman winced and replied, “Ma-Margie.”

  While the one talked, the other unwrapped her leg. The wound was horrendous. Dalton could see the fallow of bone beneath the glistening maroon of torn muscle. He had to clamp down on his back molars to keep himself in check.

  Turning to Les Salvatore, he said, “Tell me what happened.”

  Les’s eyes darted between Dalton and his wife. He desperately wanted to be by her side, not talking to a cop.

  “We need to let them do their job right now,” Dalton assured him. “When you called 911, you said your wife was bitten by a wild animal.”

  Les swallowed hard, his shaking hands rubbing the back of his neck. “Yes,
she said one bit her. But there were three in the yard.”

  “Did you see them?”

  “No. I was asleep when it happened. I only came down when I heard her screaming. They—they smashed against our back door, trying to get in. The whole thing is destroyed.”

  The EMTs wrapped Margie’s leg in gauze and took her temperature.

  “I’ll go take a look. Stay with your wife while they get her settled down. I’ll be back.”

  Les hurried to the couch and grabbed his wife’s hand. She looked up at him with pleading eyes.

  What the hell happened? Three dogs this time. And they tried to bust down the door? He had to see it for himself.

  Neighbors were gathering outside, trying to peer into the Salvatores’ windows and open front door. He motioned to them to step back. “Everyone, please go back to your houses. It’s a minor emergency. Give your neighbors their privacy, please.” He knew his words would have no effect, but it was worth a try.

  He trotted to the back of the house. A pair of lights lit up the yard.

  The screen door, or what was left of it, had been torn off the top hinge. The bottom looked like an aluminum foil ball. The wood door was splintered in a dozen or more places. A sizable hole had been punched into its center.

  “Fuck me sideways,” Dalton muttered. Dogs couldn’t do this. Rams or bulls, maybe. It was a miracle the door held.

  A long smear of blood stained the bottom panel of the door, with more spatters on the patio itself. The table was also destroyed. Pebbled glass crunched under his shoes. If Anita thought two animals working in tandem was next to impossible, wait until she heard about this.

  When Dalton returned to the living room, the EMTs had Margie Salvatore on a stretcher.

  “Her fever is spiking. We may need to put some ice packs around her,” one of them said to the other. Les stood close by, scared and confused.

  Margie’s head swiveled on the small pillow they’d placed under her. Sweat ran down her face. Her eyes were closed and starting to swell, as if she was having an allergic reaction. There was no way he was going to get a description of the animals from her right now. It would have to wait. As they left the house, a couple of Montauk PD cars arrived.

  “I’ll stop by the hospital later, see how you’re both doing and if your wife can go through what happened,” Dalton said to Les Salvatore. The man nodded nervously and followed his wife into the back of the ambulance.

  Officer Norman Henderson ambled up the walkway while another cop—it was too dark to tell who it was—tried to convince everyone to go home.

  “What the hell happened?” Norm asked. He chewed a great wad of gum that made his cheek bulge.

  “Another animal attack. This time, it was three. You have to go in the yard and see what the hell they did to the doors. Something weird’s going on here.”

  “None of us need to be Sherlock to come to that conclusion,” he said without sarcasm.

  Henderson stared at the entrance to the yard as if he was gearing himself up to look at the carnage.

  He said, “Speaking of which, I think we just ID’d the couple. Winn and I talked to Hal, you know, the bartender over at the Beach Comber? He said Randy Jenks was there the other night and he left after last call with Rosie Wilson. We verified it with Richie Burnes. He said they left to get to know each other better.”

  “Rosie, the old barfly? Randy’s like, what, thirty years younger than her?”

  Henderson shrugged his large, round shoulders. “Hey, you drink enough and everyone’s fair game. Randy’d had a bad breakup with his girlfriend of about five years. And you know Rosie.”

  Dalton stared at the Salvatore house. “Yeah, I knew Rosie.”

  “One-eleven, please respond to a 211 at 14 Marty Drive.”

  Dalton answered quickly, “In progress?”

  “Negative.”

  “Looks like another busy night,” Henderson said. “I’ll follow you.”

  What now, Dalton thought as he ran to his car. It felt like the whole town was coming apart at the seams.

  He couldn’t shake the feeling that something far, far worse was yet to come.

  When Mandy Sullivan first heard the glass break, she’d been in the bathroom patting a cold, wet washcloth to her head for the second time that night. Menopause was once again having its fun with her, refusing to let her sleep, scorching her with hot flashes and making her feel like crap. She needed sleep desperately and was contemplating calling in sick to work in the morning.

  She’d just wrung the washcloth out when something crashed into the kitchen downstairs. She heard a lot of frantic movement and her chairs being scattered about. Holding in a scream, she ran into her bedroom and locked the door. Her husband, Chris, was up and rooting around the closet for his old rifle.

  “What are you going to do with that thing? It’s just an air rifle.”

  His graying hair was as wild as his eyes. The rifle was pointed at the floor. “It’ll put a hurt into whoever’s down there.”

  Somehow, she’d convinced him to stay in their room and call the police.

  Whoever had been crashing about either left or hid when the two cop cars pulled up. Chris opened the bedroom window and called down, “Someone’s in the kitchen. It sounded like they were trashing the place. They must have heard you coming because they’re not making any noise right now.”

  The young county cop nodded and cautiously moved toward the house and out of his sight line. The older local cop said, “Stay right where you are. We’ll call you down when everything is clear.”

  Chris and Mandy had been meaning to have an alarm installed. Their house, a three-story Victorian, sat in a lot all its own with no neighbors in clear sight. It was a beautiful place. They’d gotten it for a song when the housing market tanked. Mandy was always paranoid about it standing out too much and being an easy target for burglars. Chris assured her constantly that burglars were not a concern, not out here in Montauk. They left New Jersey in the rearview mirror specifically so they didn’t have to worry about things like that.

  And now this. Chris groaned in silence, knowing that Mandy would put the full-court press on him to move.

  “You can come down now,” one of the cops said from downstairs.

  As they walked out of the bedroom, Mandy looked back and slapped his arm. “Would you please put that air rifle away? What do you want, to be shot by the cops by accident?”

  When she saw the state of her kitchen, she had to bite her tongue to keep from screaming.

  “What kind of animals would do this?” she said through gritted teeth. Chris held on to her shoulders.

  The kitchen was demolished. The thieves, or better yet, vandals, had reduced her table and chairs to splinters. The refrigerator had been tipped onto its side and the entire contents were strewn about the floor. A thick sludge of liquids oozed from the tiled kitchen and onto the dining room carpet. The double window over the sink had been smashed to pieces, filling the sink with shards of glass.

  “I know it’s hard,” the younger cop said after introducing himself, “but do you see anything that might be missing?”

  Chris looked around. “How the hell can we tell? I do know what’s broken.”

  Even the oven door had been ripped off. These vandals were thorough, if anything.

  “Why us?” Mandy asked.

  The cop brought a dining room chair over for Mandy to sit on. “I know it’s hard to make sense of this right now. All we can do is get all the facts in order so we can catch the people who did this.”

  Mandy smiled, appreciating the sincerity in his face and voice. She began telling him about everything before dialing 911, when there was a knock at the back door. “Dalton, it’s me.”

  The cop excused himself and carefully walked through the mess to open the door. The older cop stood on the top step, using his flashlight to scan the yard.

  “Sir, do you have a light for the yard?” he asked.

  Chris exhaled heavily. “It ha
s a short. I actually meant to have it fixed next week.” Mandy shot him an angry look, as if this were all his fault. Of course, vandals would never break in if he had a working backyard light, especially one that would be on this time of night.

  “Well, whoever was here left by the same way they came in, the window. There’s bits of glass out here, and I think I can see depressions in the grass.” He finally looked into the kitchen and whistled. “Holy crap, they did a number on this place. You see any footprints? It’s a little muddy out here.”

  The good-looking young cop, Gray something, looked around. “There’s so much food and spilled condiments and juice, it’s just one big mess.” He gingerly stepped to a dry spot. “Wait, see over there? What’s that?”

  The cop in the doorway leaned in, holding on to the doorframe to keep from falling. “That can’t be right.”

  Chris approached the kitchen but stopped shy of going in. “What do you see?”

  “It looks like—paw prints,” the young cop said. He exchanged a look of alarm with the other one.

  “There’s no way a dog could knock a refrigerator over,” Mandy said, joining Chris at the kitchen entrance. “And look at my table. That’s solid oak.”

  The older cop reached for his walkie-talkie. “I’m calling in for backup.”

  “Good idea,” the younger one said. “Ask for Anita Banks if she’s on call.”

  Mandy looked at Chris with utter bewilderment. What was happening? Why were the cops suddenly so worried?

  “Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan, I just need you to go back to the dining room. I’ll be with you in a minute,” the young one said.

  Chris was about to protest but Mandy pulled him back. “Just let them do their job,” she whispered. Her head was spinning. Whether it was from the menopause or the madness that was her kitchen was up for grabs.

  She held her husband’s hand tight when he pulled a chair next to hers and sat down. They watched the police as they talked to each other in hushed voices.