“Why do you say that?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you everything soon, I promise.”
“What do we do now?”
“We’ve got to ditch the car. But first I need out of these cuffs. How did you manage to get free?”
“Pull your arms down over your butt, then bend your knees and bring your hands over your feet. The keys are in the console.”
Tim struggled to lower his arms further than a few inches. He sank back into the seat and sighed. “I think my butt’s too big. I’m gonna need your help.”
Ten minutes later, Tim stood at a pay phone in a 7-Eleven parking lot. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and listened to the static-choked ring. He was surprised the thing even worked. Who used payphones anymore?
Finally, someone picked up, and a woman with a gruff smoker’s voice identified herself as the Glenwood police. Tim turned his back to the gusting wind and cupped his hands around the receiver. “There’s been an accident at the compost dump. Two people might be dead.” And then he hung up and glanced at Maria. “Did you wipe the prints off the inside of the car?”
She nodded. “What do we do now?”
Tim slung the backpack over his shoulder. “Ever hear of a Geometry teacher named Mr. G?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
When Murdock arrived at the small house on Main Street, he squeezed his unmarked Impala between the squad cars parked haphazardly out front. He climbed out of the car and cut a path through the cruisers, the rain reflecting the stroboscopic blue of the police flashers.
A local stopped him as he ducked beneath the crime scene tape and headed up the walkway. Murdock flashed his FBI credentials and the officer stepped aside with a mumbled apology. Murdock entered the house to find a swarm of locals watching as the CSI unit dusted for prints, snapped pictures, and swabbed blood samples.
“What is this, amateur hour?” he bellowed. “Let’s go, everybody out! Before you contaminate my crime scene!” After banishing the locals to the porch, he motioned to one of the CSI techs. “Where’s the body?”
“In the cellar. Only access point is through the kitchen.”
Murdock nodded and crossed into the kitchen. A CSI tech finished lifting prints from the cellar door and stepped aside to let Murdock through. Murdock descended a narrow staircase and spotted Calhoun talking to a woman from the Medical Examiner’s office. “What’s with all the people upstairs? Place is like Grand Freaking Central.”
Calhoun seemed surprised. “I left Andrews in charge up there.”
“Hell of a job he’s doing. Next time, I want you working the door until I get here. Understand?”
Calhoun nodded. “I didn’t—”
“I don’t care. Just don’t let it happen again.”
“It won’t,” Calhoun said. “Body’s over here.” He stepped aside to reveal a Caucasian male in his late forties lying face up in a pool of blood. The man’s right eye hung from its socket and his legs were severed above the knees, ending at two mangled stumps that looked disturbingly similar to raw hamburger.
“Jesus,” Murdock said. “Is that Patterson?”
Calhoun nodded. “We got a positive ID from his driver’s license. He also looks a lot like the guy from the sketch.”
Calhoun was right. The kid had given the artist a good description, right down to the exaggerated arc of the man’s eyebrows. Murdock motioned to the woman from the M.E.’s office. She was a tough looking blond who might have been pretty once. “What do you think?” he asked.
The woman glanced down at the body. “At this stage, it’s hard to say. We won’t know anything for sure until we run a number of tests.”
“Best guess,” Murdock said.
“The wounds appear to be consistent with the bite marks of a large animal.”
“You’re saying something chewed this guy’s legs off.”
“Best guess,” she said.
“So what are we talking? Pit bull? Doberman?”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “Ever see a dog chew through bone and carry away a pair of legs without leaving a trail of blood?”
Murdock peered at the body. There didn’t appear to be any bruising of the wrists. “Hands weren’t bound. Guy was probably alive while whatever it was tore his legs off. Christ, I bet he was screaming his head off. Did any of the neighbors hear anything?”
Calhoun shook his head. “The cellar door was closed. Front door too.” He gestured around the room. “No windows or doors down here, either. But we found this phone. Looks like he tried to make a call.”
“Get the phone records.”
“Already put in the request.”
Murdock drew a deep breath and leaned against the wall. This case got stranger every day. Christ, every hour. What the hell could have ripped the guy’s legs off?
“That Gillespi guy said Frank was a mailman, right?”
Murdock glanced up at his partner. “Yeah.”
“Ten bucks says his route includes Gallagher’s house.”
“Worth looking into.” Murdock turned to the M.E. official, who had just sealed the bloody phone inside a plastic evidence bag. “When you get back to the lab, have your people run Frank’s blood against the samples found in Gallagher’s living room.”
The woman nodded. “I’ll pass it along to the M.E.”
Murdock watched the rest of the M.E. staff prepare the body for transport. They bagged Patterson’s hands as well as what remained of his legs so that any flesh, saliva, or hair samples wouldn’t be contaminated. He turned back to Calhoun. “Make sure we get some of our forensics people to oversee the lab work, and expand the watch on Gallagher to 24-7. I don’t want him so much as taking a dump without us knowing what shade of brown it is.”
“Got it. You ready for some more bad news?”
Murdock sighed. “No, but go ahead.”
“I just got word that a twenty-man search party disappeared.”
“What are you talking about? We never authorized a search party.”
“It was civilian-organized. The mother of a missing kid said she was tired of sitting around while all the town’s children disappeared.” He paused. “I can’t say I blame them.”
“How long have they been missing?”
“About six hours. They set up base at one of the local’s houses. The searchers were communicating with walkie-talkies, checking in with base every half hour. No one’s heard from them since noon.”
Murdock glanced at his watch. It would be fully dark in a few minutes. “Send a dozen patrolmen into the woods. I want everyone in pairs. If nothing turns up by midnight, call it off until morning. I want you leading the search.”
Calhoun nodded. “You got it.”
There was commotion upstairs, followed by the sound of pounding footfalls. Detective Andrews charged into the basement. “We just got a report of a double homicide at the compost dump.”
“Christ,” Murdock said. He glanced at Calhoun. “Finish things here, organize the search, and check back with me at nine.” And then he mounted the stairs—taking them two at a time—and stormed through the house and into the rain.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Chief Skatchawa’s office overlooked Washaka Woods and a meandering tributary of the Housatonic River. In the distance, the hulking form of Mt. Greylock rose above the trees, its outline obscured by a rolling gray fog. The office was sparsely furnished, decorated with Native American art, clay-potted plants, and tribal artifacts displayed in glass cases.
The Chief sat tall in his chair, his leathery hands folded atop a mahogany desk. He appeared to be in his early sixties, his long, silvery hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. He wore faded blue jeans and steel-tipped boots, and when he met Jay’s gaze, his dark eyes glinted in his weathered face.
“Thanks for meeting with us,” Jay said, and glanced over at Steve, who fidgeted in his chair. “As Steve mentioned on the phone, we were hoping to learn more about the settlement at Freetown and anything
that might have led to the disappearance of its people … anything that you might have overlooked the last time you met with Steve.”
For a moment, the Chief remained silent. Then he shrugged, his long hair brushing his shoulders. “Starvation. Desertion. Disease. It could have been anything.”
“But what did your ancestors believe? Are there any histories?”
The Chief shook his head. “Nothing written. But there are legends, of course. Folklore passed on from generation to generation. But what is fact and what is fiction, I cannot say.”
Jay leaned forward in his chair. “Could you tell us about the legends?”
The Chief studied his face for a long moment, perhaps deciding whether he could be trusted, or perhaps deciding whether he would take the story too seriously. Then he lifted his right hand and motioned to the window behind him, gesturing to the vast expanse of forest.
“This land. It is the land of my people—our home, our sanctuary—for centuries. But understand, we do not own this land, for land belongs to no man. Land is the gift of the Earth Mother, a gift to all of her creatures. It does not belong to man alone, for man is no more significant than the blade of grass, the cloud in the sky, or the fish in the sea. My people know this, my people have always known this.
“But not the white man. The white man has always been greedy. He has always sought to make everything his own, to conquer, destroy, and bend the land to suit his needs. The white man did not respect my people, did not respect the land. He cleared the forest, spread disease, and drove us from our homes. And all across the land it was the same.
“When the white settlers began disappearing, my people believed it was the Earth Mother punishing them for their sins. And there was great rejoicing. But when my people began disappearing as well, we knew it could not be the Earth Mother, but rather a malevolent spirit. It was said by the tribal elders that this spirit dwelled deep in the bowels of the earth, an evil manifestation that hungered for human flesh.
“Within six months, nearly half my people had vanished. It was said that the spirit had drawn them into its lair. But my people would not be defeated so easily; our warriors fought back. They assembled before the cave where the spirit was believed to dwell, a place they called pontow wampaga, which is Washaka for, ‘where the dark one sleeps’. Legend says there was a terrible battle that resulted in many deaths. But in the end, my people discovered a way to defeat the spirit.”
“How?” Jay asked. “How did they do it?”
“By poisoning the wellspring of its life.”
“What does that mean?”
But the Chief only shrugged.
“This spirit,” Jay said. “Did it have a name?” He could feel Steve’s eyes upon him and knew that Steve was afraid of what he might say next.
“The legend doesn’t refer to a name.”
“Was it Trell?”
The Chief flinched—ever so slightly. “I don’t know. Where did you hear that name?”
“Your people didn’t kill it, Chief. It’s back, I’ve seen it. I know what it can do.”
Steve grabbed his shoulder. “That’s enough, Jay. He told us what he knows. Leave the man alone.”
“Guns won’t kill this thing. But your people managed to send it into hibernation for over three centuries. Tell me how.”
Steve stood up. “I’m sorry Chief Skatchawa. I shouldn’t have brought him.”
“You’ve got to tell me what else you know. Before more people die!”
“I think you should leave,” the Chief said.
“You don’t understand. It’s back! It's not going to stop until the whole town is destroyed, until we’re all dead! Don’t you get it? Don’t either of you get it?”
The Chief stood, his face flushed. “Get out of my office.”
***
They drove home in Steve’s Lexus, cruising along the highway at just a hair above the legal limit. Jay stared out the window and watched the trees zip past in a blur of green. The tension inside the car was palpable.
“What the hell has gotten into you? And don’t give me any crap about how drinking is ruining your life and clouding your thought process because this goes way beyond drinking. This,” he said, shaking his head, “this is insanity.”
“I’m sorry if I got a little out of control back there, but if you knew the whole story you wouldn’t blame me. Besides, if you were so concerned about your precious academic reputation, you shouldn’t have insisted on being there.”
“You wouldn’t have gotten a meeting if I hadn’t called him myself. The Chief and I have a mutual respect that we’ve built over the years. I agreed to arrange the meeting because I wanted to learn more about the disappearance of the settlement and because you agreed to keep your mouth shut. Now I’ll probably never get the opportunity to speak to the man again and learn more about the history of his people and how they influenced the land. Christ, Jay, you were ranting and raving like some kind of doomsday prophet.”
Jay stared at his friend in growing agitation. He was so naive. He and the rest of the townspeople. They’d allow themselves to be slaughtered before believing that a creature like Trell could exist. “Steve, in a few more weeks there may not be any history left for you to write about. I’m not drunk, and I know for a fact that this town will be systematically wiped out if something isn’t done to stop this creature, this beast that calls itself Trell. I’m serious. I’ve got three people who will corroborate my story. So just listen to it all before you make a judgment, okay?”
“Fine,” Steve said, his eyes never leaving the road.
When Jay finished telling the story, he drew a deep breath. “So what do you think?”
“Honestly?”
“Yeah, honestly.”
“I think you’re delusional.”
They arrived at Jay’s house. Steve pulled into the driveway, the car’s headlights illuminating the forest beyond the backyard. “You don’t even care that I’ve got people who can vouch for me?”
Steve didn’t reply.
“I don’t believe this,” Jay said, and got out of the car. “You’re so caught up in your own concept of reality that you won’t even consider the possibility that I may be right. That’s just the attitude Trell is hoping for … just the attitude that will get you all killed.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Calhoun picked his way through the darkened forest—trees crouched on either side like spindly goblins—and began to entertain serious doubts about Murdock’s decision to authorize the search. The odds of finding anyone in this were a hundred to one, Murdock’s motives for calling the search purely political.
The whole town was caught in a panic. And who could blame them, really? Over two-dozen children were missing, not to mention twenty plus adults from today’s search party. To say that the town was unhappy with the way the investigation had been conducted thus far would probably be the understatement of the century.
The people of Glenwood wanted their children back, a suspect in custody, and a tree to string him up on. And if he and Murdock didn’t deliver one soon, the two of them would find themselves hanging from the nearest tree by their balls.
The townspeople had already disobeyed an order not to venture into the woods without police supervision. He had a feeling that if they didn’t get results soon, the town would splinter into anarchy.
Calhoun swept the flashlight across the trail, illuminating silvery beads of water clinging to the underbrush. The rain had tapered off an hour ago, replaced by a steady wind that broke apart the clouds and sent them scudding across the sky.
Somewhere close, an owl hooted.
Calhoun’s search partner—officer Adelson—jumped back and dropped his flashlight.
“Just an owl,” Calhoun said, although it had made him jump a little too.
Adelson retrieved his flashlight from the dirt. “Place gives me the creeps.”
Calhoun nodded and glanced at his radio. He and Adelson both carried one, but Calhoun’
s was tuned to the channel of the original search party rather than the police frequency. Although the police radio had sporadically cut in with a crackle of activity, the search radio had remained eerily silent.
It was almost eleven o’clock and they still hadn’t found any trace of the lost search party. Calhoun couldn’t understand it. They all had radios. Why hadn’t someone called into base at the first sign of trouble?
At 11:05 the second to last team radioed in its report for the previous half hour. So far no one had seen or heard anything. Calhoun and Adelson continued through the darkness, following the trail signs nailed into the trees at every intersection.
A few minutes later the original search radio cut in with a crackle of static. Calhoun and Adelson glanced at one another and shook their heads—the last team was calling on the wrong channel. He spoke into the radio. “Search Command, go ahead.”
Silence.
“Go ahead.”
Static. And then a voice. Deep and gravelly. “Looking for me?”
Calhoun froze. “Who are you?”
“I am the Hunter and the Hunted.”
Calhoun and Adelson exchanged a glance. “Where are the people from the search party?”
“Dead. Every … last … one.”
“You killed them?” He fought to prevent the fear from creeping into his voice. He had to remain calm, had to ask this lunatic a bunch of questions, get him to slip up, reveal some clues that would allow them to discover his identity.
“They yielded their lives to me.”
“Why?”
“So that I may grow stronger.”
Calhoun surveyed the darkness. “Did you have help?”
“You have no idea what you’re up against.”
“Did you have help?” he repeated.
“Would you like to play a game?”
“Where are you?”
“That’s not how you play, agent Calhoun.”
Calhoun’s arms crawled with gooseflesh. “How do you know my name?”
“Because I am the One and the Many.”
Colony of the Lost Page 15
