Poaching Grounds: A gripping psychological crime thriller (Carolina McKay Thriller Book 4)

by Tony Urban

  “You were the doctor here,” she said with a knowing smile.

  He sucked back a gulp of air, trying not to let her see his shock. “You can’t fire me.”

  “Oh yes, I can. And in fact, I just did,” she said, folding her arms over her bony chest.

  “This is ridiculous,” Mitch seethed. “I’ve been with the practice for over fifteen years! Half your clients are here because of me!”

  “And they’ll be happy to see one of our other doctors. One of our normal doctors.” She jabbed her index finger into his chest. It felt like being pecked by a diminutive, annoying bird. “I don’t know if what happened to you up in Minnesota fouled up the wiring in your head or what your deal is. But I don’t care. You’re a disgrace and we’re better off without you.”

  Mitch glared at her, debating on what to do next. He wanted to grab a handful of her ugly hair with its ridiculous cut and jerk her face toward his mouth, sinking his teeth into her skin. He wanted to rip the flesh away from her face. To feel her boiling blood rain down his throat. To feel her life merge into his own.

  But he knew there was a security camera in the room. It had been installed a few years earlier when someone kept stealing Dr. Cadbury’s egg salad sandwiches from the mini fridge. If he killed Carlene here, he’d be captured.

  “You fucking whore,” he seethed. “You sleep with the boss, and you think you can shove me out. You don’t even know what I am.”

  She picked up the phone and held it in her hand, just waiting for him to do something else. “I believe what you are is unemployed. If you don’t leave now, I’m calling the police.”

  His chest rose and fell rapid fire as he stared her down, trying to intimidate her into submission. But Carlene began to dial.

  Nine. One.

  Mitch pushed past her, their shoulders brushing, her revolting scent attaching itself to his clothing.

  I wouldn’t lower myself to eat you, he thought as he left the room and slammed the door behind him. I’d rather eat a skunk.

  He reminded himself not to care about Carlene or his job. Those were merely distractions from an ordinary life which was soon coming to a close. What did matter was chained in the cellar of his cabin. That was his destiny.

  Chapter 52

  The beagles may have been attacked by a coyote, but Carolina was certain something else killed at least some of the massacred animals. And her best bet was a three-hundred-pound sheep with its throat torn open and blood soaked into the thick wool.

  The photo was one of the last in the case file. Taken in a farmer’s field, the dead animal lay in tall grass. The report, written by Hank, contained only the barest of facts. Breed of animal, owner’s name, and address, and ‘probable cult activity.’

  Carolina could only shake her head as she read the report. Through none of the animal attacks had an expert been called in to verify whether the wounds were caused by a knife or teeth. A hammer or claws. A person or an animal. They just jumped about the Satanism train and rode it until the killings stopped.

  She steered her van up a long dirt driveway that ended in front of a pristine farmhouse. A fresh coat of white paint had been applied recently and the contrast between that and the bright red barn standing behind it was striking. Add in a brilliant blue sky with a smattering of puffy clouds, a field of corn to the east, and cows grazing to the south, and she felt like she’d stepped into a Winslow Homer original.

  After exiting the van, she didn’t make it five feet before two Australian Shepherds came bounding toward her. They barked nonstop, not in anger but in alert. Almost immediately the screen door to the house creaked open.

  “Jack, Ripley, scoot off to the barn,” a man’s voice commanded. The dogs took another wary look at her, then obeyed their master. “Come on up,” the man said from the covered porch. “They’re scared of their own shadows, those two. They won’t bother you none.”

  Carolina climbed the four wooden steps and met a man who looked to be eighty going on ancient. He wore overalls and a ribbed white undershirt. A Chesterfield cigarette dangled from his bottom lip, and he smiled wide at the sight of Carolina.

  “Don’t get many pretty young ladies at my door,” he said. “You sure you’re at the right house?”

  Carolina smiled back. Ordinarily she found compliments from strange men annoying, but from this old character it was somewhat endearing. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m a private investigator and was hoping to ask you a few questions.” She passed him a business card.

  He read it. “Carolina McKay? You know, I’ve seen a Carolina Wren or two around here. Lovely birds.”

  “My namesake,” she said. “And I’m assuming you’re Lou Weaver?”

  He gave a quick nod as he folded the card in half and dropped it into a pocket. “Guilty. What is it you need from me?”

  “I’m assisting the sheriff’s office with an investigation, and I wanted to follow up with you about a sheep that was killed last year?”

  His genial expression faltered, and he motioned to some wicker chairs sitting nearby. “Mind if we have this discussion sitting down? Uncle Arthur gives me fits during this humidity.”

  He didn’t wait for her approval before settling into the closest chair. Carolina claimed the one next to him.

  “That was April of last year. Began the week after Easter.”

  “Began?” Carolina asked, confused.

  “Yeah,” Lou said. “Lost the first one on a Tuesday. I called the sheriff over it because I was having some trouble with the Raley twins that live on up the road. They’d been running their four-wheelers through my soybean field, and I gave ‘em hell about it. After I found that sheep dead, I got to thinking they might have done it out of vengeance.”

  “Seems a little extreme, doesn’t it?” Carolina asked. The notion that a disagreement between neighbors could lead to an animal being slaughtered hardly fit the bucolic paradise Hopkins advertised in tourism brochures. Of course, she doubted they’d mention a string of murdered women either.

  “You don’t know the Raleys,” Lou said, taking a long drag off his cigarette. “But it wasn’t them. They were out of town visiting family in Cincinnati.”

  “Did the sheriff confirm that?” Carolina asked. None of this was in the file and it was all news to her.

  “Nope. George Amberson did. He’s the letter carrier to Rural Route Three.”

  “I see,” Carolina said. The more she learned about the way Hank worked, the less she respected him. And the bar had already been quite low. “So, you lost another sheep after that?”

  “Yeah. But not just one. Eleven more over the next couple a weeks.”

  “Holy shit,” Carolina said, then pinched her mouth shut, remembering that country folk didn’t usually take kindly to blasphemy.

  But Lou only smirked. “Don’t gotta be bashful around me. I was in the Navy.” He displayed the underside of his forearm to her, revealing a blurry and faded tattoo that could have been anything from a seagull to the letter J, but considering what he’d just told her, she assumed it an anchor.

  She was debating whether she should thank him for his service when he held up a hand, so tanned it looked like leather. “Hold up a minute,” he said, disappearing into the house.

  It was a few minutes, though, and Carolina passed the time by looking into the fields. She saw plenty of cows and crops, but no sheep. Finally, Lou returned holding a small book. He handed it to her, and she flipped it open. Inside were several images of other sheep that had been killed.

  “I don’t know if you’re a country gal or not, but I expect not by the way you’re dressed,” Lou said.

  Carolina looked down at her clothes. She was wearing the usual; jeans and a t-shirt and had thought she fit in just fine.

  “Too clean,” Lou said with a grin so wide it revealed a broken tooth in his dentures. Then he barked a hearty laugh.

  “I’m just fooling with you. Old man’s gotta find fun where he can.”

  Carolina like
d him more with each passing second.

  “You grow up in the country, and especially on a farm, and you get accustomed to seeing dead things. Sometimes it’s disease that causes it. Sometimes it’s bad luck. And sometimes it’s Mother Nature going about her business.” He snuffed out the Chesterfield in an overflowing ashtray before continuing. “My sheep weren’t killed by no hungry, wild animal. I know that sure as I know my date of birth.”

  Carolina studied the photos, seeing the progression of the kills, and then it became clear to her, too. They’d all been attacked and left bloody and ravaged, but the later victims hadn’t been dined upon. Sure, there were bite wounds, killing wounds, but they hadn’t been splayed open and their flesh consumed.

  As if reading her mind, Lou stated the obvious. “An animal kills to eat. Whatever killed my sheep did it because it liked killing. Only thing I know does that is man.”

  Carolina ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it away from her face. She felt like she was closer than ever but didn’t want to get ahead of herself. “Did you call the sheriff again, to tell him about the other dead sheep?”

  Lou rolled a fresh cigarette between his thumb and middle finger. “Sure did. Said he’d make a note of it. That was the last I ever heard from him.”

  She clenched her jaw, surprised even though she shouldn’t have been. But the knowledge that Hank could have potentially stopped all of this before it began was infuriating.

  “Your dogs seem pretty alert? Did they ever bark at whoever or whatever it was out there?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Yeah. You saw ‘em. Anything that comes into their territory gets a good scolding. But whoever it was, didn’t seem to scare so easily. And as soon as I realized that I brought the dogs into the house and locked ‘em inside. Losing sheep’s bad enough. I wasn’t about to let nothing happen to my dogs.”

  Carolina nodded, thinking about Yeti and some of the other dogs she’d met during her time in Hopkins. She felt like there was more to this but couldn’t quite connect the dots yet. “Any idea what made him stop?” she asked. “Killing your sheep, I mean.”

  “Only stopped because I sold what was left of ‘em to Ian McAndrews. If I hadn’t, I got no doubt I’d have woke up every morning to more dead sheep in my field.” A tired, defeated sigh escaped the man’s lips. “Once something, either man or beast, gets a taste for blood, that never goes away. They don’t stop killing until someone stops them.”

  Chapter 53

  Carolina waited at the burger joint until a quarter after one, but Leigh never showed. She sent two text messages and tried to call a few times, but those attempts at communication garnered no response.

  She hadn’t taken Leigh as the type to be so easily embarrassed, but Carolina knew the girl had been flustered and disappointed when her advances were spurned. The young deputy might need time before facing her again. Under normal circumstances, that would be fine. But there was the pesky matter of a serial killer hanging over their heads.

  After leaving Lou’s farm and going over his story again and again in her head, she’d become convinced that his sheep were killed by a person. And that person had upgraded from pets and livestock to human beings.

  She wanted to share that with Leigh, then have Leigh run it by Billington. Carolina couldn’t care less about getting the credit, but she wanted all the power of the police and FBI to be aware and start working that lead. There was no sense in letting hurt feelings stall the investigation, not when lives were in jeopardy, so she headed to the station to see if Leigh was around.

  The typically quiet building was now morgue-like. No phones ringing, papers being shuffled, business taking place. She half-thought it had been abandoned until Odie stepped out of the break room. He was using a small straw to mix the cream into his coffee and didn’t see her until she was practically on top of him.

  Then the man, in his typically lackadaisical manner, gave her a tip of the head. “Morning,” he said.

  She didn’t bother pointing out that it was afternoon. “Is Leigh in there?” she asked, nodding toward the break room.

  He gave a slow-motion head shake. “Nope. Agent Billington’s in the conference room though in case you intend to avoid her.”

  Odie’s best trait was that he didn’t give a shit. Even if it meant he might get heat from the boss.

  “Thanks,” she said, then passed him by on the way to Leigh’s desk. She expected to see something to signify that the girl had been around, but the desk was tidy and in order. No personal belongings like car keys or a jacket or purse.

  She turned to find Odie again, to ask if Leigh had been to work that day, but instead came face to face with Frances Billington.

  “What do you think you’re doing here?” Billington asked, her voice the temperature of liquid nitrogen.

  “I’m looking for Leigh.”

  Billington raised an eyebrow. “Not to discuss my case, I hope.”

  “Where is she?” Carolina asked, ignoring Billington’s moody attitude and the my case claim.

  “Deputy Benner didn’t bother coming to work today. I wasn’t surprised. Ineptitude obviously runs rampant in this pissant town.”

  Billington waved her hand at Carolina in a shooing motion like she was some child pestering the principal at a school and returned to the conference room. Carolina didn’t appreciate the dismissal, but she refused to put her ego ahead of innocent lives.

  The woman was already planted at her desk, focused on a mountain of paperwork when Carolina caught up with her.

  “I know you don’t want my input--”

  “That is correct,” Billington interrupted.

  “But I'm going to give it to you anyway,” Carolina said. “In the spring of last year there was a rash of animals being killed in Hopkins. House pets for the most part, but it eventually escalated to livestock.”

  Billington looked up at her, disinterested, but listening.

  “This morning I met with a farmer who lost twelve sheep over the course of a few weeks. Hank wrote it off as the work of a cult, devil worshippers--”

  The agent laughed derisively. “Sounds like a good, old-fashioned Satanic panic.”

  “It was. But I think we both know the odds of a cult coming to Hopkins, Ohio to kill cats and farm animals is about as likely as Hank receiving the Congressional Medal of Honor.”

  Billington gave up a grin, a real one, at that dig, and Carolina thought she might be winning her over.

  “The farmer showed me photos of the sheep that were killed. Aside from the first few, there were no signs of them being eaten. They were slaughtered, viciously, but not consumed in any way.”

  Carolina approached the wall where photos of the dead women stared back at her. “An animal didn’t kill them. And neither did a cult. But I think there’s a very strong possibility that the man who killed Stephanie Harlowe, Erin Tuccaro, Betty Sue Corrian, Phyllis Arthurs, and Katie Eddows did.”

  She turned to Billington, trying to read her inscrutable face. After a long pause, the woman responded.

  “I want to see the photos of those sheep. Can you bring them to me?”

  Carolina wished she could whip them out, proving herself one step ahead, but she’d left them in the possession of Lou Weaver. Instead, she had to go with the second-best option. “I can get them from the farmer.”

  “Good,” Billington said. “But get Deputy Benner in on this. I know you enjoy going rogue, but that’s a luxury you’re awarded as a freelancer. I have superiors to report to and rules to follow. If something goes sideways and the bureau finds out I have a civilian feeding me information, it’ll be my ass in a sling.”

  Carolina hated that bureaucratic horseshit, but if she had to play the game to catch this killer, she’d do it.

  Chapter 54

  Leigh’s Prius was parked in the driveway and after pressing her hand against the hood, Carolina determined it hadn’t moved in hours. Probably since the day before. Probably not since Leigh had fled her motel r
oom in embarrassed shame.

  She hit the doorbell but didn’t wait for an answer. “Leigh? It’s Carolina, I need your help.”

  She waited, listened, tried to peer through the smoked glass at the side of the door, but heard or saw nothing. Screw the doorbell, it was time to use her fist. She hammered the door.

  “Leigh! Come on, already!”

  Still, nothing.

  Carolina tried the knob. It was locked. She ran her hand above the frame, feeling for a key, but there was none. Then she checked under a cat-shaped welcome mat. Again, no luck. She glanced around, looking for a fake rock or out-of-place decoration where a key might be hidden, but came up empty.

  “Fuck!” she muttered.

  Carolina hiked around the house, shoes crunching through the dry, mid-summer grass until she reached the back door. At the bottom was a small pet door, the rubber flap swaying lazily in the breeze. For a brief, foolish moment Carolina wondered if she could fit through that pet door if it came to that.

  Oh, hell no. She’d break a window if she needed access that bad.

  The rear door was also locked, and Carolina repeated her search for a key. She’d come up empty at the frame and the mat. There were no fake rocks either. But there was a flowerpot containing a very dead petunia.

  She lifted the pot off its flat and surprised herself when she spotted a bronze key just waiting to be used to gain entry to the house. Leigh was foolish to hide a key in a spot so easily accessed - a cop should know better - but she didn’t waste time mentally scolding her, as Leigh’s mistake worked to Carolina’s benefit.

  She grabbed the key, unlocked the door, and jerked it open. She opened her mouth to call out, then nearly screamed when a ball of fur launched itself at her.

  The cat hit her in the crotch and Carolina fumbled to catch it before it crashed awkwardly to the floor. Then she looked into its stupidly adorable face. “You scared the shit out of me, cat.”