by Dan O'Brien
“I have to agree with him. Quite bold.”
His voice had a rough, deep quality to it, but there was as well something profoundly articulate in his speech. Turning, she looked into his cool blue eyes, vast oceans of serenity that stared back into hers with a distant glint.
A light beard covered his face, like he had been hiding from a razor for several days. His lips were a kind of small, perfect curvature that made her heart flutter in a way she would never admit to another person. He wore a long sleeve shirt under a black button-up, a swooping, gold design across the chest. As he opened his mouth to speak again, he extended a hand, exposing heavily muscled forearms that rippled as he reached out.
“Dominic,” he spoke with clear inflection.
Lauren stared at him for a moment, uncertain of what to do next. It was one of those moments when it felt like the world had plunged into slow motion. Each utterance, every smell amplified beyond its normal dominion.
Dominic stared for a moment, seeming very at ease leaving his hand out there waiting for her. With a sheepish smile, she extended her hand as well. He had a strong grip, but not one that was intimidating or a turn-off.
“Lauren,” she spoke.
He smiled and it was a dazzling one.
Once again, she felt her heart flutter.
Why was she acting like such a girl? Perhaps it was the whiskey. She shook her head. Realizing that he was watching her carefully, she blushed.
“Clearly you are not from around here, Lauren. I could not help but overhear your conversation. You are a peace officer?”
There was something distinctly odd about the way he asked the question. As if he were transplanted from another time period, pulled from an era of courtesy.
“It is not often I hear cops referred to so eloquently.”
He smiled, more a manipulation of his perfect lips, and revealed a sliver of teeth underneath. “My apologies, perhaps I should have gone with something more colloquial such as copper or uniform.”
Lauren laughed in a way that was more the giggle of a high-schooler with a crush than an admonition of humor. She could not help but feel like an idiot. Grabbing the whiskey for courage, she drank it in a quick gulp. “That would have been strange. No one has used those words since the 50s.”
Dominic smiled again. “Indeed. Pardon my old-fashioned manners. How then would a lady from the modern era have referred to officers of the law?”
“Officer would have worked fine. I’m a federal agent. Agent Westlake,” she continued, stumbling over her words. “I came to investigate a murder. A strange one.”
“Strange how?”
Lauren allowed the veil of silliness to depart. It was replaced with the business tact she had learned to use as an efficient front. “There have been several instances across the country of violence that are unique, to say the least.”
Dominic sat back in his stool, signaling to the bartender for something. The heavy bartender pushed a heavy mug forward. “Unique?”
Lauren looked at him strangely, uncertain if she should give credence to the warning in her stomach. The concern she felt immediately that a random man was taking interest in what she had to say.
“Are you very interested in murder, Mr…?”
“McManus.”
“Dominic McManus,” she spoke softly.
He tilted his head at her, a small smirk on his lips. “And as far as murder is concerned, Agent Westlake, we should all be aware of such things. A death is a sad thing, especially where a life is forcibly taken.”
Lauren nodded. “Agreed. These murders, however, are of a very specific and violent nature.”
“Hmm?”
Lauren moved closer to Dominic, leaning in slightly. He smelled of the woods, like camping. She swallowed hard before she continued. “They look as those an animal attacked. Yet the wounds are not consistent with any known predatory creature that lurks in any of the woods of the northern continent.”
“Is that so?”
She nodded. “More often than not, the victims are women. Most are attractive, single women who are lost in the woods or walked home late at night, alone.”
Dominic smiled.
“Are you asking me to walk you home?”
“What? Huh? I didn’t mean…”
Dominic’s smile dissolved immediately. “Was I too forward? My apologies, I thought that…”
Lauren looked at him, completely flummoxed.
“No, I mean that wasn’t my. But you…”
“Shall I leave?”
Lauren was beat red now.
“No. Please stay. Unless of course you…”
“As you were saying,” he replied, alleviating the awkward discussion that would follow rife with open-ended questions and quests for validation. “Women walking alone. Attacked. Murdered. And the cause?”
Lauren regained her sensibilities quickly. “That is just the thing, no cause. There has yet to be one arrest or the closing of a single case.”
“That is dire.”
She nodded.
“There is talk that the attacks may be supernatural.”
“Supernatural?”
She inched closer still, his smell delicious. Perhaps it was the long train ride or the time that had passed since she had slept with a man. Or perhaps it was simply because he was gorgeous.
“Werewolf.”
The look that rose to Dominic’s face was one of quiet disbelief mixed with concern “Werewolf?” he repeated briskly.
Lauren nodded. “Weird and completely insane, right? As if there are such things as werewolves. I personally believe it is some kind of a transient serial killer: a smart, resourceful creep who moves on when he has made himself too visible, uprooting and changing his identity.”
“Sounds reasonable. Has there been a murder here that mirrors your previous investigation?”
“A woman was killed on the lake. She had similar markings. I was supposed to have arrived this afternoon, but the weather is dreadful and the transportation less than timely.”
“The weather is unfortunate here at times, especially this deep in winter. I am quite sorry to hear that your trip was unpleasant. Though I am confused, were you called in to investigate?”
Lauren tapped the counter, grabbing the bartender’s attention. With a swift finger, she pointed for a refill. “Not exactly. There was an inquiry about the specifics of the murder that was flagged by the bureau. When I got wind of it, I made my way here. This is a small passion of mine.”
“So this would be an on-going investigation?”
She nodded.
“Then perhaps speaking to a complete stranger about it would be taboo?”
Lauren looked through the haze of whiskey and realized her error. He was not wrong. Speaking to some random person about events that were not meant to be public knowledge was more than taboo, it was grounds for dismissal.
She felt like she would cry.
Or at the very least scream quite loudly.
“Please do not be concerned. I have no intention of participating in some gossip circle. But this is a small town and if people do not already know, they will very soon. I did not mean to put you on the spot.”
Lauren tried to recover.
“No, it wasn’t an imposition.”
The words sounded silly as she spoke them. She was overcompensating for the dwindling pool of thoughts she had to draw from. Dominic smiled again. His face came alive each time as if his joy were an aphrodisiac.
“That is good to hear. I would not want to make you uncomfortable. I can imagine a long train ride and your altercation with the woman here tonight would be enough to turn you off of this small town.”
She nodded. Feeling the whiskey take over completely, it broke down the walls of her implicit rules; the fortress behind which she dwelled so efficiently. “There might be some things here worth my time,” she slurred slightly.
It was no secret that her skill at flirtation was less than par. Dominic looked
at her, the intensity of his blue eyes speaking of a much older being than the one who sat across from her. She shook her head, the mist of intoxication making her think strangely.
Suddenly, her emotions were all over the place. And then looking at Dominic, something animalistic took over. Something overtly sexual grabbed a hold from the inside out. “So what was that bit about walking me home?”
Chapter III
Sheriff Montgomery looked at the frozen, mangled body of Madeline Leftwich and could not seem to conjure up remorse. Two grisly murders in the span of two days were enough to plunge the emotions of a small town into a nexus, a black hole of sorts. The woods seemed harmless during the day, better resembling a Robert Frost poem than a horrific murder scene.
Tufts of thick brown hair escaped from the wool cap he wore. A heavy face that was accented with a thick beard made him appear a lumberjack or dock worker as opposed to a civil servant. Pale brown eyes surveyed the scene with a kind of absent criticism. He knelt down, the heavy material of his pants cracking as if they were frozen solid, which was not far from the truth.
Reaching out with a gloved hand, he touched the ghastly face. Locke experienced a murder once a decade and often it was someone not from Minnesota, but some vacationer. Maybe they were from California or some damned warm place that didn’t have the decency to just appreciate the tall green trees that clouded the distance and the gripping cold that took the breath from you even in July. Shaking his head, he stood again. His heavy frame had begun to thicken in the middle with age.
“Sheriff, we got some tracks over here,” called out the young deputy, a thin reed of a boy. Everyone was a boy to Montgomery since the big five-zero had rolled around last spring. The young deputy’s hazel eyes were the kind about which women dreamed. Though what was behind them was little more than a vapid afterthought.
Montgomery walked over the frozen earth, making sure to walk around the partially covered remains of Ms. Leftwich, or rather what remained. The tall pines watched the sheriff pass, branches swaying slightly in the morning breeze.
The deputy was standing over heavy indentions in the earth. Matthews was the consummate northerner. Heavy Nordic brow and cheekbones made him look like a Viking warrior displaced. The sloppy grin across his face belied the gruesome scene he and the sheriff overlooked. “Looks like they might be from an animal, hey,” he mumbled, pointing down at the ground.
Squatting down, Montgomery touched the firm earth with his gloved hands. Already the soil was cold again despite the horror that had no doubt transpired hours before. “Looks like it could be bear tracks, but the narrow arch could be human. No claws, just heavy prints. Not definitive.”
“Could it be a monster, hey?”
Montgomery looked at him with a grim look.
“You making a joke, deputy?”
“Sorry, sir.”
Looking past the marks, there was damage to the brush as well. Pushing past hard spiny branches, the sheriff saw where Madeline Leftwich had hid before her assailant got the better of her. Part of her coat rested on the crawling, thorny brush that was located only a few feet from the murder scene.
“Looks like this is where the victim was hiding.”
“Hiding, Sherriff?”
Montgomery stood, surveying the scene with a critical eye. Pointing down at the brush, he began. “I believe Ms. Leftwich was out in the woods here for some reason. Walking home from the train station, I suppose.”
“She was a bit batty, hey.”
Montgomery did not bother to chastise his deputy with words. Instead, he directed a dark glare his way. It was sufficient. Walking forward, pointing farther down the trail, the sheriff continued. “For whatever reason, she felt compelled to enter these woods at night. Wild animals aside, this trail has proven dangerous in the past. Something or someone was waiting for her. Maybe she saw it coming, maybe it chased her.”
The deputy watched quietly.
“Either way she hid in this bush until whatever got her, dragged her free.”
Ms. Collins, local medical examiner, in all her burlesque glory on the cold bitter morning, walked over to the sheriff and deputy. Her hands were covered in black gloves. Bright orange lipstick accented her face; the bee hive she wore so proudly was streaked with black and white.
“I think your assumption might be correct, sheriff.”
Montgomery looked at her with a stone face. “Is that so? What makes you so agreeable this morning?”
Collins stiffened her back and walked toward the body. They followed, the three of them soon overlooking Madeline’s frozen corpse. “There are bruises along her upper arms, and if I am not mistaken, there is tendon and muscle damage consistent with a dragging scenario. We won’t know more until I get her on the table, but I think it is a reasonable assumption.”
The sheriff knelt again, this time inspecting the wound carefully. Tracing a finger over the gashes, he grimaced. “Strange wounds,” he began and then making hooks with his fingers. “Looks like a claw or some kind of garden tool.”
“So we’re looking for a gardener?”
Montgomery shook his head. “Perhaps his tools, deputy,” answered the sheriff sarcastically. Looking into the distance, he continued. “You think this is related?”
Collins raised a painted eyebrow.
“To the woman at the lake?”
The sheriff nodded.
Watching the still forest around them, he listened for an abnormality like a druid of the old world. “Two murders in the span of two days, similar conditions. Women alone attacked and left in the cold. Certainly something to think about.”
The deputy scratched his head in confusion.
“But the two crime scenes are miles apart.”
“Mile, maybe mile and a half.”
“Seems bit far for collusion between the two acts,” offered the deputy, looking away as the sheriff took note of his word choice. Even Collins in all her macabre glory looked at him with a skeptical eye. “What? I can evolve.”
Montgomery did not even bother commenting. “There are marks along her chest very similar to those of our Jane Doe in the morgue. What’s this?” Collins leaned in, the powerful grip of her perfume rankled the sheriff. “You mind taking a step back, Ms. Collins. For posterity, of course.”
She looked at him over dark-rimmed glasses and smirked. “Some men find me intoxicating, sheriff.”
“Not one of ‘em,” he replied. Pulling back the tarp, he continued. “She is missing a patch of skin.”
“What?”
The deputy leaned in, his eyes wide.
The remains of Madeline Leftwich were indeed missing a large piece of skin, the size of two hands just above her hips. Collins, despite the weight of her massive hair arrangement, ducked into see what the sheriff was referring to. The cold air embraced their collective breath, a strange orgy of evacuated clouds.
“Looks like it was ripped clean,” spoke the deputy in revulsion.
Collins reached down with a gloved hand, pushing in the skin and inspecting the wound with a critical eye. “Looks post-mortem. Could be unrelated, scavengers or another assailant perhaps?”
Montgomery shook his head.
“Unlikely.”
The deputy stood up.
He looked pale.
This was the first time in his limited service to the city of Locke when he had witnessed such heinous acts. The urge to vomit rose to the surface, stifled with tight lips and wide eyes. “There wasn’t anything like this on the Jane Doe,” he managed through clenched teeth.
Montgomery nodded absently. “We didn’t see anything, that’s true. Doesn’t mean there wasn’t anything there though.” He turned to Collins. “You notice anything like this on the other victim?”
“I wasn’t really looking for that. We still have her on ice. Toxicology is still out and swabs from the wounds were sent down south for processing. Gonna still be a little while yet, hey.”
The sheriff nodded, his mouth twisti
ng.
“What do you think happened?” asked the deputy, taking a few steps back as the bag was re-zipped once more. The crime scene crew, which is to say Collins and an awkward intern, carried away Leftwich.
Montgomery stared at the wilderness again: stillness.
The bitter lethargy of winter was in full bloom: gray skies, salt and pepper earth. “I think whoever or whatever did this isn’t done.”
“Yeah.”
“And I think maybe things are going to get worse before they get better.”
LAUREN OPENED HER EYES SLOWLY. The night before had been a blur, drinks led to more drinks. She remembered Dominic, but not the events that led to her lying on her back as she was. White walls were marred slightly with yellowish stains from smokers past.
What did I do?
Her thoughts drifted as she rose, pushing back the stiff, yet warm covers that enveloped her torso. Looking to the other side of the bed, it was undisturbed. He had not come home with her.
IT WALKED THROUGHTHE SHAMBLES of the shed that served as its home. Rusted implements of maim and death hung about it like ghoulish trophies of a world forgotten. The gray day lent little luminance in its shack.
The smell should have been acerbic, overpowering. Were it summer, the stench of the flesh would have overpowered the air for miles. Yet in winter there were no smells, locked up in a prison of the mind. Boards erected overtop one another in meaningless patterns; scattered holes that revealed the cold and gray outside.
It no longer felt the cold.
Its mind, as its body, was numb.
A table was at the center of the room, of its home. It reached out, grasping the two hands of flesh torn from Madeline Leftwich.
Not always had it been like this: the curse, the bite.
It was an animal.
Now it was forced to hunt, driven by the moon to kill.
A dead wolf hung in the cabin; the head was still intact. The body had been torn to pieces, fur and foot missing from the torso.
It walked past a gap in the walls, its arms revealed.
Wolf fur sewn into flesh. A piece of human flesh pulled and stretched like it wished to make leather, teasing the elasticity of it, testing it. Needles scattered about, bound already in flesh and blood.
