by Dan O'Brien
Blue eyes, deep and intelligent, looked back.
“I can hear your heart,” he spoke clearly.
The words were soft, yet resonated strength.
A tingle traced the length of her spine from toes to teeth. She lifted up, flexing her entire body, wrapping her arms around his neck and bringing her face close to his. Kissing him again, they both fell onto the couch. Their bodies flowed into one another long into the early morning, when the sun defeated the night and kissed the day.
SEVENTEEN BODIES IN THE MORGUE, one girl in the ICU, and a strange girl covered in condiments sitting in his interrogation room: Montgomery was having an interesting morning to say the least. Sipping the coffee, black this morning with no creamer, he looked at the aptly named Condiments through the one-way glass.
“She doesn’t remember anything?” Montgomery asked.
Matthews looked tired.
Scratching his head and rubbing his red eyes, he shook his head. “No, sir. She remembers breaking up with her boyfriend and then hooking up with Kyle Lavender. There are pieces of other things, but well, you know. She was covered in condiments. That don’t make a lick of sense, hey.”
Montgomery nodded, taking another sip from his coffee. “The girl in the ICU?”
The deputy consulted a chart in his hand. “Sarah Andrews. Critical condition. She was flown to Fargo. The injuries are serious, sheriff. They are giving her like ten percent. We got something back on the husband.”
A monosyllabic grunt was all the sheriff had in him.
“They were getting a divorce. Infidelity. Both parties. We checked around town, showed some pictures. A few people remembered seeing her around. She was looking for a good time.”
Montgomery looked at him over the top of the coffee mug. “I sense an and coming.”
“The wife went after young men. No surprise there. The real kicker is that he liked young men, too. Seems they had something in common after all. Solid alibi for the husband. He was at a conference in Southern California for about three weeks or so surrounding the timeframe of the murders. About a hundred or so witnesses to corroborate.”
“Any information on Westlake?”
Matthews soured.
His boyish smile disappeared at the agent’s name. “Condiments in there don’t remember seeing her. The lake has that hole in it. We found tracks on both sides of the shoreline. Two sets Lavender side. One set on the other. No one has seen or heard from her yet.”
“I want some of the borrowed deputies combing those woods.”
Matthews nodded.
“Had them out there since dawn, hey. Nothing yet.”
Montgomery gestured toward Condiments with his coffee mug. “I think I’m gonna talk to our young friend in here. Try and jog her memory.”
The deputy nodded and disappeared out the door of the observation room. As Montgomery entered the interrogation room, Condiments flashed him an angry glare. Dried remnants of the night before still clung to her hair in small clumps.
“Why am I being held here? What the fuck is wrong with you people?” she barked.
Montgomery sat down across from her, placing his coffee mug on the table and lacing his hands through each other. “Let’s start over. I’m Sheriff Montgomery. And what’s your name? Or do you prefer being referred to as Condiments?”
Her face reddened, eyes sharpened.
“Maggie.”
“Maggie? Maggie What?”
Condiments crossed her arms over her breasts.
She was wearing a blue uniform.
Black boldface letters announced a prisoner identification number on them. Her nudity could not be abided in a police station, so she was forced to wear a prisoner’s jumpsuit.
She was less than thrilled.
“Maggie Wayne.”
Montgomery smiled, taking another sip of his coffee. “Well, Ms. Wayne. A hell of a thing happened last night and we are simply trying to put it all together. We aren’t keeping you here necessarily…”
“Then let me fucking go.”
The sheriff looked at her with the neutral stare he was so fond of. “Just a few more questions and you can be on your way. Your answers might help us understand what happened last night.”
Condiments leaned back in her seat.
“My deputy says you recall breaking up with your boyfriend. Is that correct?” Her glare was penetrating. Had Montgomery been a twenty-something, it might have been rather powerful.
“Yeah. He was a fucktard.”
The sheriff nodded. “And after your break-up with fucktard, you attended the party at the Lavender house, hosted by Kyle Lavender.”
“I didn’t attend it, you fucking geezer. How old are you?”
“So you went to the party at the Lavender house. How do you know Kyle Lavender?”
She shifted in her seat. “We used to hook up a long time ago in high school. We would flirt with each other when he came around, so I figured he would be some fun.”
Montgomery leaned back in his seat as well, holding the coffee mug in his hand. He brushed off his pant leg with his free hand, looking at the walls of the interrogation room as he did so. “Do you have a history of violence, Ms. Wayne? Your verbal behavior is certainly belligerent enough.”
She leaned forward.
“You think I killed all those people?”
He shook his head. “No, I was curious about your relationship with Kyle Lavender. Did you sleep with him the night of the murders?”
“Is that relevant?”
Montgomery leaned back farther, lifting the front legs of the chair off the floor. “I am trying to figure out how you ended up naked and covered in condiments. You were passed out in a tub. Doesn’t that strike you as a strange place to have found yourself?”
She looked at him with a raised eyebrow and pursed lips. “What the fuck do you think? Of course I was surprised, and angry. I don’t remember how I got there. I remember drinking. Drinking a lot and then I was with Kyle, I think.”
“You think?”
She sighed, rolling her eyes.
“It was a party, geezer. I was drinking a lot. We were all drinking a lot. I was dancing with Kyle and then we were alone. I think I woke up in his bed alone and then I remember your idiot deputy looking at me in the tub. That is everything. Satisfied?”
Montgomery leaned forward, the front legs of the chair scraping the cement floor of the interrogation room. “Not by a long shot, but I don’t think you can tell me anything else that will be pertinent to this case.”
She sighed irritably.
“That is what I told your idiot deputy.”
The sheriff stood. Condiments mimicked him, her arms still crossed over her chest. Montgomery opened the door and gestured for her to walk through, which she did with a perpetual scowl on her face. “We didn’t find any clean clothes at the scene. One of the deputies will give you a ride home.”
She grimaced and nodded.
“Whatever.”
He ushered her out into the front room of the station where the collected deputies of the local parishes stood. Signaling to a bearded, older deputy, he touched the girl’s shoulder.
“You be careful, Ms. Wayne. You survived a pretty harrowing ordeal. Whatever killed your friends might still be out there.”
Her irritation faded into a masked fear.
“You think he might come back?”
Montgomery shrugged: his trademark. “Maybe. Just stay indoors. Try not to wander into any more parties drunk and alone.”
She opened her mouth to say something glib, but instead remained silent. The bearded officer guided her outside, a cold gust of wind infecting the front room of the station. Mrs. Meadows shivered outright, pulling a dark shawl she was wearing closer to her thick body. Her voice was hoarse. “Still no word on Agent Westlake, sheriff. You think she fell into the lake?”
Montgomery did not want to think about it.
Agent Lauren Westlake had become one of his people. She was on
e of his officers, at least in his mind. He could not yet accept such a grim possibility; that she was somewhere beneath the ice-covered lakes.
“We have to hold on to hope, Mrs. Meadows.”
“Sheriff,” called Matthews, rounding the long counter. “They found some tracks in the woods.”
“Westlake?”
He shook his head.
“Bigger. Much bigger.”
Chapter XVIII
The creature howled painfully as he dug his corroded hands into the wound at his shoulder. Saliva dripped from his mouth, spilling out onto the dirty table at the center of the room.
Blood covered every surface of the enclosure. His hand was buried deep into the wound. And then there were the groans and cries, and the dull metallic sheen of a slug covered in viscous blood.
Moaning, the creature lifted a long piece of flesh he had taken from the Lavender house. He laid it over the wound, pressing down so that the spongy skin conformed to the curve of his shoulder. Pressing his squalid finger against the flesh, he dug it into the wound, filling it with another’s skin.
He picked up the needle and dark black fabric. Stitching, the needle produced more blood. Screeching, the woods around him quieted to a deathly pall. Light filtered through the shack and the creature looked like a tapestry made of many artists’ renditions. He wore no shirt and the mutilation that Hecate had spoken of was evident.
The creature was a patchwork quilt of flesh: different skin tones, scars of another body, faded black tattoos taken from a victim.
Leaning over from the pain, the horror of his face had removed any humanity. Puss and blood oozed from his face as the wound beneath struggled to heal. He moved his arm, the foreign flesh folding and wrinkling.
The creature no longer wore shoes.
His feet were split and cut.
Blood dried and smoothed with a paste of dirt and ice. Jumping onto the table like a rabid animal, he pushed aside everything, scratching and clawing as the wound throbbed and attempted to heal despite the torn flesh. Pushing open the door of the cabin, he snarled and leapt out into the cold morning.
The forest in the distance rustled with the wind. Tearing into the frozen earth, he sprinted into the woods. He was death on swift wings.
LAUREN WATCHED AS DOMINIC DRESSED. She wore his shirt, only a few of the buttons done correctly. He had not spoken since they made love, nor during. With each piece of clothing restored, she found herself more and more disappointed. They hid something beyond her fantasies, beyond any wild expectation she had ever felt or dreamt.
“Is everything alright?” she asked, realizing that the insecure questioning following sex was the bane of every man’s existence.
But she had to know.
A dynamic had shifted.
His body had desired hers. It had felt like their entire existence had been in synch. A childish fantasy, but she had really felt it in her entire being.
His eyes were glossy.
“I fear I have done something unforgivable.”
She reached out with her hands, calling for him. He moved toward her. They intertwined hands. Looking up into his mournful, blue eyes, she felt his pain. “Why would you say that? It was amazing, Dominic. Beautiful. Perfect.”
He turned his eyes away. “We cannot breed with humans. Women die in childbirth. There are complications…”
Lauren smiled.
“We were careful, Dominic. “
Dominic unlaced her hands.
“Hecate had told me that in Locke I would be able to save my people. I have been in Locke for thirty-seven months and have not seen another of my kind. I confronted her last night, demanded she reveal the truth to me.”
She sat transfixed, listening.
Guessing what might come next.
“She told me that I had come here for you. That you would further my species. I cannot help but fear that our union will result in something that will change your life. I do not wish to complicate your life.”
Lauren grabbed his hand hard, giving it a squeeze. “We let others complicate our lives. We choose to live that way. We choose to include people in our lives. You have not complicated my life, Dominic. You do not complicate my life.”
He walked away. Sitting into of the chairs, he sighed. “I hope not. I have already caused irreparable damage to your kind.”
Lauren stood and walked to him. Having found slippers and thick woolen socks, she was no longer barefoot. “We will find the creature.”
Dominic nodded as he pulled on hiking boots, tying the laces with authority. “Locke is no longer safe with me here. I should take you back to your sheriff. He must be very worried about you.”
Lauren had not given much thought to Sheriff Montgomery and the events of the previous night. She had not thought about how the broken lake must look or the Lavender house: all those dead people, the blood, the creature. Lauren leaned against the wall, staggered by the weight of it all.
Dominic looked up, his blue eyes distant, changing like the tides. “It is not your fault, Lauren. What has happened here, all this death and carnage, was the work of a man, a man who must be stopped. That can only be stopped with death.”
She nodded slowly. “Where are my clothes? The ones I was wearing last night.”
Dominic stood, moving onto the porch just beyond the kitchen. He disappeared for a moment, the sound of rustling and shutting. Returning with her clothes, he placed them gently on the table. “I fear they are still a bit damp, but quite warm.”
Lauren grabbed the clothes, feeling them.
She suddenly felt like crying, a surge of emotion welling up within her. Kneading them with her fingers, they were not all that damp, just wet in places. A tear traced her cheek and she wiped it away quickly.
“I would like to change before you bring me to the station,” she spoke, startled by Dominic’s sudden presence so close to her.
He touched her face.
Tilting it, he looked into her eyes.
“It is not your fault,” he repeated.
She nodded quickly.
The nod continued as she stood, drawing in a deep breath. She pointed to a half-opened door and Dominic smiled. Grabbing the clothes, she disappeared into the bathroom to change. Dominic waited for a moment, sitting very still after Lauren walked away. Then grabbing the two teacups, he stood and carried them to the sink.
“Could that logo you saw have been for the factory here in town, Erickson’s?” called Lauren from inside the other room. “I don’t imagine there are a lot of local businesses with a logo here in Locke. It’s not exactly a commercial center.”
Dominic turned on the faucet, water sputtering to life.
He ran the teacups underneath the water, turning them over in the sink. “I am not certain. It might have been any number of things. If I could see the insignia, then I might be able to better answer your question.”
Lauren re-emerged, her professional attire restored.
Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail.
“Then let us see if we can find one.”
MATTHEWS WALKED OUT AHEAD of the other deputies. The shotgun bounced off his shoulder as he looked left and right on the heavily wooded path. This was not exactly how he hoped to spend his day. Prior to what would later be known as Locke Massacre, there had been little crime in the quiet town.
He had spent the majority of his days eating a burger and checking out local talent. Now, there was a psychopathic killer who collected skin and may or may not be a werewolf; too damn much in his opinion. Pushing back a mass of branches with the top of his shotgun, he mumbled irritably to himself.
The other officers seemed even less concerned with the manhunt. Walking through the sometimes thigh-high brush, they did little more than touch the tops of scraggly branches that twisted in the cold wind. It was not long before the cold deputies came upon the wide, windblown tracks that a hiker had found: deep grooves in the forest line just before the lake.
They were indeed
larger than anyone had seen in those parts. Matthews squatted, wincing when the cold barrel of the shotgun touched the exposed skin just above his coat. Touching the ground, he pushed away powdery snow that had formed just above the deep indention.
“This looks like it could be a bear, hey,” called one of the other deputies. He was one from across state lines, just the other side of the county. Thick in the middle with a beard, he had clearly been licking his lips as they were pink and irritated.
Another deputy, this one boyish and Nordic like Matthews, stepped forward, hands at his waist. “That’s no bear there, hey. Me and me pops, we hunt up and down these woods, hey. That ain’t no bear,” he contributed.
“What is it then, Grizzly Adams?” countered another of the group. With thick glasses and a lit cancer stick in his mouth, he watched the indention in the snow and frozen earth with the other deputies. The wind had picked up. Branches rustled, creating haunting conversations: whispers in the cold. “If it ain’t a bear, then what is it? Maybe it’s Bigfoot? Abominable Snowman?”
Matthews felt the beginnings of a slight headache brewing: too little stimulation. “It isn’t Westlake’s?”
The deputy shook his head.
“The killer?”
The deputy shook his head again. “That ain’t nothin’ human. Too big for any bears around here, hey. Maybe it be somethin’ supernatural. No such thing as Abominable Snowman ‘ough. That’s fiction.”
Matthews stood, pressing his fists against his hips with an exasperated sigh. The cold air blew against his face, picking up in intensity. “Is there anything else? Any sign of Agent Westlake?”
The deputy with tracking experience shook his head. “Everything been obscured. Wiped away, hey. There just these tracks and parts of a bunch of others. Could be animal, could be human. No way to tell now.”
Matthews nodded, closing his eyes in quiet contemplation. Pressing his chin against the receiver on his shoulder, he sighed. “Meadows. This is Matthews. We got large tracks. No sign of Westlake. Over.”
A long pause followed, filled with cracking ice deep within the lake and the bored exhalations of the other deputies. There was static and then the voice of the receptionist. “Come back in, Matthews. We have Westlake here. She is safe and sound. Over.”
