Bitten/Drained: The Lauren Westlake Chronicles Volume 1

by Dan O'Brien

  “So there were metallic particulates in the wounds of both victims?” called Lauren’s voice.

  The sheriff emerged into the open area of the morgue and smiled at the medical examiner’s unfortunate choice in attire and make-up. Her wild beehive was flattened out in the top, reminiscent of a helipad. There were tinges of red and purple deep within the mound. Black eyeliner laid on concubine thick was outshined by a silver lipstick that would have looked out of place on a Vegas showgirl.

  “Very much so. If I were to venture a guess, which I will most certainly do, then I would say it was iron or copper by the looks of it. It was from something that you would find in a gardening tool inventory or perhaps among farming implements. Definitely man-made, hey.”

  The conversation made her attendant look squeamish. Being in the basement after the attack, no doubt, made images of the violence all the more vivid. Seeing the rows of compartments and visualizing a body pulled free by something walked straight from a nightmare would be enough to cause some anxiety.

  Montgomery rocked on his heels.

  “So no werewolf?”

  Lauren looked at him and rolled her eyes. “That means Hecate spoke the truth. A man trying to become a monster and a monster that wishes to be a man. What killed these poor women and the late Wayne Joyce was a man, not a monster.”

  He smiled.

  “Like I said: no werewolf.”

  Collins and the squeamish attendant looked at the exchange with curious glances. “What exactly is going on? We talking about werewolves, like humans that change into giant beasts, hey? That sounds a bit Hollywood,” Collins interjected.

  Lauren pressed her hands into her hips.

  “We ran into something strange last night and there was this shack in the woods. A woman there told me about a werewolf in Locke and that a man had been bitten.”

  With a huff and a slamming door, Matthews arrived on the scene. Bent over at the waist, he raised a finger for a moment. His voice was raspy, sputtering out in jerks and fits. “The husband. Here. Wants to know. What is going on? Angry,” he began and then standing up, he drew in a deep breath and then released. “The victim’s husband is here. Angry guy, threatening all sorts of nonsense.”

  Montgomery’s brow furrowed in irritation and Lauren wrung her hands in anticipation. The dreaded talk with a victim’s loved ones was never easy, but when there was an angry party involved it got messy.

  Collins broke the uncomfortable silence.

  “I sent over the reports to the station. But there is not much in them beyond what you would expect. Leftwich was on anti-depressants and anti-psychotics; the other woman had some opiates in her system and MDMA residue. She was definitely sailing 24 to 48 hours before her death. Both suffered head trauma in addition to the gashing wounds.”

  Lauren nodded slowly.

  Montgomery had followed the deputy up the stairs. For him, maintaining the sanctity and peace of his station was at the forefront of his mind.

  “How about Wayne Joyce?”

  Collins moved toward her steel table.

  The white sheet was drawn over the body such that it covered from the waist down. A deep recess was torn through the cadaver’s chest and the face had been cleaned such that near translucent bone emerged from the jaw line.

  “Chest trauma and half of the face torn clean. Some damage to the nasal cavity as well that would be consistent with a tearing weapon being inserted into the face and lifted.”

  There was a numbness that was attained after seeing so many dead bodies. After a while, the life that had once been is not seen, but instead the details that spoke of the untimely death or, in rare occasions, the timely one.

  Lauren pointed at the face.

  “Looks like he took quite a bit…”

  “He?” Collins raised an eyebrow. “We have decided on the sex of the killer?”

  Agent Westlake crossed her arms. “Hecate was pretty clear about a man trying to become a monster. I am going to run with male. We are looking into animal bite victims that would fit the timeline of the murders.”

  “Bite victims. You mean bitten by a werewolf.”

  Lauren nodded. “I realize how mad all of this sounds, but we saw something on the road last night coming back from the Joyce residence that I cannot explain. When we went into the woods after it…”

  “You went into the woods after a strange creature? Haven’t you ever seen a slasher film, hey? That’s how you get killed and gang-raped in the forest.”

  The agent smiled wryly.

  “Montgomery said something very similar. You two are of one mind about that. Either way, when we gave pursuit we came upon this old shack in the woods. This strange woman, Hecate, served me hallucinogen-laced tea and told me a wild story.”

  Collins looked at Lauren incredulously, which was something to say given the burlesque appearance of the medical examiner. “You took tea from a strange woman in the forest? Alone? You the damn poster girl for bad choices, aren’t you?”

  “She said that there were two men in Locke who were at the center of the case, a man trying to become a monster and a monster that longed to be a man. The mutilation of the victims and the taking of trophies have turned out to be something far more insane. The killer is trying to make his appearance match the creature he feels like inwardly. Hecate warned of more victims.”

  Collins thought on that.

  Her wide eyes were made all the more poignant with thick eyeliner announcing their presence. “You ever think that this woman, Hecate, is the killer? Perhaps all this nonsense is simply to throw you off track.”

  “I don’t think so. It is difficult to explain. I believed her. Something hunts Locke and it was not a woman in a shack serving tea to strangers. This is something far more primal.”

  Collins looked down at Wayne Joyce’s body once more and then pulled the sheet up, hiding it from the world. They moved away from the table, the more rotund Collins gesturing for them to retreat to the first floor. Hitting the light, they climbed the stairwell in relative darkness.

  Already the day looked like night.

  The later in the year, the longer the night; the worse the weather, the darker the cloud cover. Looking out one of the windows of the morgue, littered with drooping, lazy spider webs, a question struck the agent.

  “Is tonight a full moon?”

  Collins moved the silver sliding lock to the basement and adjusted her glasses. “I believe so. Tonight or tomorrow night.”

  Hecate had not said much about the behavior of the werewolf, only the consequences of the bite and the situation in which they now found themselves. She wondered what would happen to a werewolf on a full moon. Folklore seemed to make that their most prominent night, when they assumed their true form.

  Would it be the case this time?

  “Can you do me a favor?” Lauren turned, touching the woman on the shoulder. “Stay indoors the next couple of nights. I have a feeling it is going to be a horror show for the foreseeable future.”

  The normally confident medical examiner seemed to grow shyer at that moment, removed into herself. “If what you say is true, then I believe we are in for some hellish times. May God have mercy on us all.”

  Agent Westlake, taking a few steps toward the door and leaning on its frame, looked out into the darkening afternoon. She felt in the very pit of her being that something horrible would happen that night.

  “I am not sure he is listening.”

  THE CREATURE CRASHED into the sides of its space. Tearing broken, rusted objects from the shelves and throwing them to the ground in angry fits of rage. Tears streamed down its face and the guttural whimper that echoed in the oversized shed was the only shred of humanity that remained.

  With each mashed piece of its life, it plunged deeper into madness; closer to the monster it was slowly becoming. The light of the day had all but faded. Reaching out and grasping a light bulb that hung dimly at the center of the shed, it crushed it, allowing the shards to rip apart
its hands.

  Blood dripped on the work table where the partial husk of Wayne Joyce’s mutilated face lay. It had stretched out the flesh, drying it and coating it with deer oil. Its cries were crocodile tears; there was no emotion left except rage, hatred. Remorse and guilt long since disappearing into the abyss that was its mind.

  The winds howled.

  It responded.

  Black thread, spooled with a sharp needle, lay just beside the human mask. It reached down with one of its mangled hands, lifting the needle and then the flesh. Pressing against its skin, it drove the needle into its own face, drawing blood and an angry snarl. Each time through, there was a growl and a pool of blood. The task was complete, the flesh attached to the monster.

  Little folds lifted from its face. The wind whipped against them, drawing its attention. Reaching out to a staple gun, it pressed it against its face. It drove thick steel staples into its face, flattening out the macabre mask.

  The table was a massacre.

  Leftover pieces of the trophies it had taken were lifeless artifacts of its ascension to death-bringer. Reaching out for the long claw of torture that it wore as a glove, it groaned. Language had been lost. More and more it felt like an animal, a creature meant to destroy everything, and everyone.

  The rage built like steam. It coursed through its veins, polluting every aspect of humanity that remained. The moon would rise soon: full and omniscient. That would be the moment of its ascension.

  It would be its masterpiece.

  Chapter XIII

  Lauren immediately did not like Evan Marshall. Despite the expensive coat he wore, the roundness of his being was transparent. His thin arms and legs and a massive midsection that came from a life of comfort and excess were prominent. His dark hair was combed back like too many executives, power-wielding men who saw such a look as indicative of success.

  Thick purple rings under his eyes were a testament to many sleepless nights, or perhaps an addiction. His voice was nasal and his jowls wiggled when he grew upset, which seemed to be every syllable.

  And he was one of those irritating people who overused adverbs. “I find it interesting that you cannot legitimately give me a name or a reason for my late wife’s murder. Honestly, I find this rural police work to be mostly a bunch of hicks circle-jerking in the wilderness,” he near-yelled. There was something bovine about his features: cow eyes, heavy face.

  Montgomery seemed very at home ignoring his insults. “I am sorry you feel that way, Mr. Marshall. I can assure you we are doing everything we can. We are currently investigating a few avenues of inquiry about your wife’s death. There have been two other murders of a similar nature. We believe that we will have a suspect in custody very soon,” spoke Montgomery with a practiced pitch.

  Evan Marshall was not so easily sated. “Clearly you will have to currently forgive me.” His mockery was palpable. “Evidently, my wife died here in your little piece of bumfuck and I am not completely satisfied with your local presence. I would like to alert a federal agency. Any one will do honestly.”

  Lauren stifled a laugh.

  The ignorance of the wealthy knew no bounds. She stepped forward, making sure to pull the laminated identification from her jacket. In that moment, she realized that she had not used it since coming to Locke except when first introducing herself. People here simply believed what she said. “Agent Lauren Westlake, I am working with local PD on this case. I can assure you that we are doing everything we can.”

  He did not seem convinced by her presence either. “Figures they would send a woman up here to the middle of nowhere. I want to speak to your supervisor immediately. I want a real agent on my wife’s murder, not some harlot who clearly had nothing better to do.”

  Deputy Matthews cringed.

  Montgomery watched mutely. His eyes were daggers that peeled Evan Marshall where he stood. But it came down to Lauren, how she would react to such foolishness.

  “That is an interesting perspective you have, Mr. Marshall. It is true I am a woman. What you may not know is that I served in the military. Have you ever served, Mr. Marshall?”

  He shook his head.

  Lauren continued. “I did. I was Military Police, the most hated position to have, especially as a woman. Might as well have had pariah written on my chest. My marksman scores were top of my class. My master’s degree comes from Cornell. Where did you go to college, Mr. Marshall?”

  He swallowed hard, backing away slightly, his resolves faltering. “Pittsburgh State. I…”

  “I see. Not a bad school, I’m sure you were top of your class?”

  Evan Marshall shook his head, his hands reaching back behind him to find the counter as Lauren moved toward him. “I had a 2.1, barely graduated.”

  Lauren nodded, trying her hardest not to laugh in the man’s face. “I didn’t have that luxury. You see people assumed that I was getting ahead because I was a woman. Not because I tried harder than everyone else. Or studied harder. Nope, it was because I lacked a penis that people thought I was sleeping my way to good grades.”

  Evan Marshall was nearly bending over backwards. “I am sorry to hear that. I would never have assumed…”

  Lauren smiled in a disarming, predatory manner. “That is good to hear because for a second there, I thought maybe my sex had made you question my presence here. I would hate for that to be an issue. I have what some might call an aggressive streak when it comes to closing cases and finding who I intend to find. It is a curse, I suppose.”

  The man tripped over his own feet and slumped aside, stepping out of the agent’s path. “Of course,” he stammered. “Clearly you have everything in control here. I approve of you taking over this case. At least I know there is someone with a level head.”

  Evan Marshall moved past the sheriff, a stiff nod exchanged and then out into the cold streets of Locke. Montgomery watched him go with a bemused look upon his face.

  The deputy started to laugh the minute the irritating man had left. “Holy shit, Agent Westlake. That was awesome, hey,” marveled Matthews.

  Adrenaline coursed through the agent and she breathed out slowly so her voice did not waver. “Thank you, deputy. Sometimes you have to put idiots like that in their place. I can understand his grief, but deflection is hardly the best response to your wife’s murder. There is a lot that doesn’t make sense with his situation. Why was his wife up here in Locke? I checked the file, they have no relatives here. No aunts. No distant cousins.”

  Mrs. Meadows laughed so loudly that she nearly fell off her chair. “Good for you there, girl. Serves him right talking to you like that. You would think he would be sadder given his wife’s passing.”

  Lauren looked pensive. “You would think so, wouldn’t you? Meadows do me a favor and look into our friend Marshall and see what was going down in the past couple of weeks. He might not have been aware of his wife’s activities.”

  Mrs. Meadows nodded.

  Montgomery moved alongside the counter, arms crossed. “You like him for her murder? I thought we were going with your bitten theory? Werewolf spawn and all that.”

  Agent Westlake shook her head. “Not spawn, sheriff. Think neurotoxin, but instead of killing you it makes you batty.”

  Matthews looked confused. Mrs. Meadows looked over her glasses with a twisted grin. “Werewolf,” they said in unison.

  Lauren threw up her hands.

  “Ask the sheriff,” she replied as she went through the back of the station into the holding area where they had placed the transient the night before. The back rooms were colder than those in the front, perhaps it was the stone walls with no insulation.

  Lauren could not be certain.

  The detention area was little more than a large room subdivided into three gray cells fitted with rudimentary steel bars that were icy to the touch. The vagrant sat in his cell, head hanging down and a heavy blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

  He did not look up when the agent entered.

  “How did
you sleep?” she offered, pulling a seat in front of the cell.

  The man grunted, lifting his head and looking deeply into the beautiful but tired face of Lauren. “Warm here. And mice at night. Better than the woods. He has to finish. So he is in the woods. Always looking. Always lurking,” spoke the man, his inflection monotone.

  Lauren crossed one leg over the other. “I am glad to hear it was pleasant. I have some more questions for you.”

  Grunting again, he lowered his head.

  “Were you bitten by anything out in the woods?”

  The man looked at her again; his face was dirty. His were dead eyes that looked out though an empty shell. “Many things, but not what you seek.”

  “What do you think I seek?”

  “The creature. It hasn’t finished. It must finish,”

  Agent Westlake leaned forward in the chair, hands gripping her legs. “You have seen the creature?”

  He shook his head. “I have heard it in the night. I saw where it came from. Once. It must kill. It mumbled in the darkness. Speaking of death. Hatred.” A pause as he drew the blanket around his shoulders tighter. “Rage.”

  The air in the room had grown warm and she felt as like it would suffocate her. “Could you show me where you heard the whispering?”

  “It is very cold there. A place of death. It is death.”

  The outer door of the detention room opened and Montgomery entered. “They think you are insane. Werewolves and bitten men who are collecting human skin. Madness. Complete and utter madness.”

  The transient looked at the sheriff with a listless stare. “Wolves that walk as men. And men who wish to walk as wolves. Death in its footsteps. There is madness in the forest,” he whispered.

  Lauren lingered, looking at the vagrant for a moment before turning to the sheriff. “He says he has heard the creature whisper. Maybe he can lead us to where this depraved son of a bitch has been hiding.”