Some sudden impulse drove him to his feet. Flipping the remote onto the couch, he started to pace. Front door, kitchen, fridge. Through the living room, stare out the sliding door at his back yard. Around the couch and back to the front door to look out the small pane of safety glass on his front drive. Back to the kitchen. Fridge, still empty.
After his fifth lap, or fifteenth, or fiftieth, he started to scratch. His left shoulder blade itched something fierce. No sooner had he finished satisfying that itch than his right shoulder cried out for his nails’ ministrations. Switching hands, he scratched furiously, pressing deep into his flannel and scoring the skin beneath. Like a game of whack-a-mole, the itch moved to his scalp. Bringing both hands to the task, he scrubbed at his unruly hair, chasing the itch across the top of his head and down his cheeks to his chest.
Time must’ve passed, but Dallas wasn’t getting the memos. His steps and hands settled into a strange cadence as his mind drifted. Pace, scratch. Pace, scratch.
Herb’s back. But it’s not really Herb. Can’t be. He’s in a can. Person can’t be a person in a can.
Pace. Scratch. Rummage through the fridge.
Lois brought him back. How’s that even possible? Witches ain’t hot. Lois is hot, so Lois can’t be a witch. Not frickin’ possible.
Pace. Scratch. Stare at the backyard.
But she is a witch. She’s got spooky books and candles and other crap, and there was that weird pattern on her table, and she said she’s a witch.
Past the couch. Stare out at the front drive. Scratch.
She can’t be a witch, and Herb can’t be in a can. I drank too much, and Lois was messing with me. Forget it, Dal. Focus on the werewolf. Stan should be back soon. Dammit, I’m hungry!
The last thought yanked his feet to a stop, one hand reaching around his shoulder, the other mid-scratch on his thigh. His mind rolled the thought around as he considered the sudden urge to eat. While he didn’t really have a list of things he wanted or needed to do, he knew with certainty that if he did put a list together, getting some food was definitely going to be on top. Underlined. Twice. With an exclamation point. His newly discovered hunger dragged him back from wherever his mind had been for the past...
“Two-thirty? Where the hell did the day go? No wonder I’m frickin’ starving.”
Saying the word flipped some kind of switch, turning his hunger into a physical thing. His stomach gave a long and gurgley gurgle, and his mouth started to water. Flipping through his mental Rolodex of grub spots around town, he considered his options, evaluated their menus, and discarded each one in turn. Ronnie’s was definitely out. Weasel’s, no. Stein’s, no. Bay City? No. Cecil’s? Been there, done that. Pizza? Nope. His hunger had a specific shape, a definite texture. He knew what he wanted, and no one was going to make it for him. This was a craving he had to satisfy himself.
Never one to sit idly by when things needed doing, Dallas grabbed up his jacket, swiped his keys off the table, and headed for Deloris, giving her a passing kick in the chrome testicles hanging from the trailer hitch. Thoughts of Stanley, werewolves, and all the rest fell conveniently aside, eclipsed by his new mission.
The Get’n’Gobble wasn’t busy, which was good because Dallas was in no mood to queue. Bee-lining for the meat counter, he practically ran over the few unfortunate shoppers that had the rotten luck of being in his path. Upon reaching the case, he place both palms against the glass and inhaled. When the smell of raw meat flooded his nose, his eyes rolled back, and a deep sigh escaped his lips.
“Hankerin’, huh?” the woman behind the case observed. “I get ‘em, too. What are ya feeling? Steak? Brats? Bacon? We got some nice pork cutlets wrapped up with cream cheese and asparagus, if that’s your thing.”
“Yes.” Dallas’s throaty reply might’ve surprised him if he were capable of any self-awareness. As it was, all he could think was meat, meat, meat.
“So which will it be, then?”
“Yes,” he replied again and clarified, “All of it.”
The woman pushed at her hair net with a gloved hand. “Okey doke. One steak, one brat, one pork cutlet. How much bacon?”
“No, I mean all of it. Everything here. Unless you’ve got more in the back? That, too.”
An eyebrow raised up as the woman considered his request. “A party, huh? How many people are you inviting? Heck, that much meat, I should grab the hubby and kids and make an appearance.”
Dallas’s wondered at the strange suggestion. He wasn’t having a party, he was just hungry. Really, really hungry.
“I’m really hungry,” he explained, eyes still glued to the platters of dead flesh.
“Well, I can’t sell you everything here. We’re open until ten. What if other people want some?”
“Don’t care,” he growled, each syllable packed with malice and dipped in danger. “Pack it up. Shovel it into a bag, don’t worry about wrapping it. Could you step on it though? Man’s gotta eat.”
The woman’s eyes went wide before her face broke into a slow smile.
“Okay den, ha ha. I swear, you boys are always full of the pranks, aren’t ya? Now seriously, what do you need?”
Dallas finally looked up from the meat. Rising up to his full height, he leaned forward, eyes boring into the woman’s. Every muscle tensed, from his toes to his clenched jaw, as words ground out of his mouth like bloody sausage links.
“I want all of it. Now. I don’t care how much it costs. I don’t care if someone else whines. I don’t care if you think I’m kidding around. I want all of the meat, and I want it now. If that’s going to be a problem for you, I’ll smash the case and get it myself.”
Huffing with indignation, the woman turned on her heel and walked through the swinging door to the back. She returned a moment later with a large, waxed box.
“I have to wrap it so I can weigh it,” she said in a brittle voice. “Is that alright with you, or do you want to smash my scale, too?”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
For the next few minutes, she grabbed handfuls of meat, slapped them on butcher’s paper, wrapped, taped, and weighed them. Too slowly, she packed the box with meat and Midwestern passive-aggression. Dallas vibrated with barely suppressed anticipation and had to repeatedly wipe the drool from the corners of his mouth with his sleeve. Finally, the meat case platters were empty, and the box was full. The woman struggled mightily to lift it, but could only get it a few inches off the counter.
“Let me get another box,” she complained.
Impatience driving his legs, Dallas rounded the meat case and shoved the woman aside.
“This’ll do,” he managed, lifting the box easily and heading back around, oblivious to the muttered curses the woman was throwing at his back.
When he reached the checkout, he upended the box onto the belt. The sound of a wet avalanche drew the pimply-faced teen by the register out of his horror magazine and into the real world.
“Wow. Party?”
“No. Hungry.”
“Wild. There’s a sale on toilet paper. You’ll probably be blocked up for a week, eating all this protein. When it comes, you’re gonna need toilet paper.”
A large and very annoyed animal growled, the sound coming from somewhere nearby. The teen’s already pale face blanched, each pimple standing out like a bright red BB with an oily white cap. Dropping the magazine, he started to hastily scan the packages of meat and pack them back into the box. It was only after Dallas had passed a credit card across the belt, retrieved it, and carried the box to Deloris that he realized the growling noise he’d heard had been him. The realization brought a dark smile to his lips.
Chapter 26
“I c-can’t believe you ate without me,” Stanley complained. “We’re a t-team, right?”
“Oh, sure. A team. Which is why I was so annoyed. You were taking so long, I figured you’d gone to eat without me. Rotten thing to do to your teammate.”
Stanley’s face purpled with indignation. “B-but
I didn’t eat! I swear! I’m st-starving, but I was working hard, Dal. Really, I was!”
Dallas laughed, the action stretching his already distended stomach and pushing out a hearty belch. He’d packed away almost the entire box of juicy, raw meat in one sitting and was now feeling incredibly satiated and indescribably happy.
Sometimes all it takes is a good meal to put everything right, he thought.
“I know you were working, and I’m sorry I grabbed a bite without you. Won’t happen again. I think there’s still,” he rummaged in the box and pulled out an asparagus wrapped pork cutlet, “one of these things. There’s meat in there, somewhere, if you can get past the nasty green stuff.”
Stanley’s eyes went wide, and he started to bounce excitedly from foot to foot. “Oh, h-heck yeah, Dallas. I love the pork cutlets. And that’s asparagus. Lots of iron, lots of vitamins. Make’s your p-pee smell funny, but it’s totally worth it.”
While Stanley cooked up the cutlet, which Dallas thought was a bit weird, he reviewed the list Stanley had put together.
He unfolded it carefully and spread it out on the small dining room table. Dallas was impressed at the crisp, clean rows of hand-written text. Stanley was an odd one, to be sure, but he had amazing penmanship. It’s why he was usually tasked with keeping track of important things like bowling scores and lists of possible werewolves in Trappersville.
Sliding a finger down the list of names, he wrinkled his brow and shook his head.
“Crappers. Kind of a long list. Are you sure you got some good suspects here?”
Stanley’s head poked out of the kitchen, bobbing like a yo-yo on a short string.
“Oh, you bet’cha. I was watching, Murder, She Wrote. S-season nine, episode seven, Sugar and Spice, M-malice and Vice,” he said over the sound of a sizzling skillet. “It’s a really good episode. One of my favorites.”
Ducking back into the kitchen, he returned a few minutes later with his lunch and sat across the table from Dallas. Warming up to how he derived his list of suspects, he started explaining the episode for Dallas between forkfuls of pork and cheesy asparagus.
“See, Michael Haggerty’s future son-in-law is mixed up with this Hong Kong b-bank run by drug dealers. Real nasty guys, those drug dealers. Guns, too. Bad news.”
Dallas crossed his arms and cleared his throat.
“J-just listen,” Stanley whined. “I’m getting there. See, turns out that gonna-be son-in-law, he ends up d-dead, you know. Everyone’s looking at Michael, but not Jessica. No sir. She knows a thing or two about a thing or two, so she starts helping c-clear his name. It’s tough though. That Michael, he was found with his dead son. Or almost son. In-law. I said that, right? He ain’t a son-in-law yet, but he’s g-gonna be. That’s important.”
Holding out a hand to stop the onslaught, Dallas shoved his words in edgewise between Stanley’s excited yammering.
“Okay! Good to know. Fine job, Stanley. You’ve convinced me. I can see you put a lot of thought into this, so where do we start? Who’s our top suspect?”
“Fancy Dan,” Stanley said, authoritatively. “Betch’ya all the cheese c-curds in Kenosha he’s a werewolf.”
Dallas couldn’t help but laugh. Seeing Stanley’s crestfallen look only made it funnier. Fancy Dan, a werewolf?
“It’s n-not funny!” Stanley sputtered. “I done my research. Fancy Dan’s d-definitely a werewolf.”
Dallas’s laughter subsiding a bit, he obligingly listened while Stanley made his case. After mapping out where the missing dogs were taken from, Dan’s trailer was pretty near to the center. Plus, the tracks Colton had found seemed to head in that direction. Dallas shrugged, pointing out that Dan’s trailer wasn’t too far from his house. While houses tended to be a little spread out in these parts, there were still probably twenty or thirty people that lived inside of the werewolf’s assumed territory.
“Yeah, I know, I know,” Stanley agreed, “but I checked ‘em out. I know m-most of the folks in town, too, ya know. I crosschecked the folks on this side of town with some other stuff. There’s more.”
“Do tell,” Dallas said, grabbing a fresh beer from the fridge and cracking it open.
“Well, we know it wasn’t you, right?” Stanley started. “I mean, you didn’t g-get those dogs, did you?”
Dallas snorted beer through his nose.
“Me? What the hell, Stan?”
“I know. I know. It wasn’t you. So I started thinking, how does someone turn into a werewolf? They get b-bit. Sure they do. Another werewolf comes around, bites ‘em. That’s what Colton said. And g-guess what?” Stanley asked.
Dallas didn’t say anything, still a bit insulted that Stanley would even imply that he’d done something to those dogs.
“Guess what?” Stanley asked again.
Thinking about it was really souring Dallas’s mood. He’d been feeling just fine. He’d had a great lunch and was washing it down with a nice, cold beer. Everything was good, but then Stanley shows up suggesting that he, the Hero of frickin’ Trappersville, might be a werewolf.
“Dallas, guess what?” Stanley repeated, knee bouncing and fingers drumming on the table with excitement.
“What, Stanley? What? Geez. You’re like a four year old that just learned a magic trick. Get it out, for chrissake.”
“Fancy Dan got b-bit. Last week. I saw him at the clinic. I had to g-get my flu shot. Always g-get the flu shot, you know. Flu’s a nasty business. First, there’s the fever, then you p-puke. Nasty business. You gotta g-get the flu shot. You got yours, right Dallas?”
“No. Now what’s this about Dan getting bit?”
Stanley beamed. “He was at the clinic, coming out as I was going in. Had a b-bandage on his arm. Said it was a stray dog. Said it was hiding under his trailer and bit him when he was trying to get it out. Needed to g-get a rabies shot and everything. But Dallas,” Stanley paused to let the drama of the moment build. “What if it wasn’t no dog? What if it was a wolf?”
“Or what if it was a dog?” Dallas challenged. “I’ve had to run off more than my fair share of strays, especially if the garbage lid ain’t on tight.”
Stanley shook his head. “Nope. No sir. When I was doing my research today, I saw Fancy Dan. He was coming out of the salon. You know the one where they do the t-tans and the highlights and what-not? That one. I saw Dan, and he was looking all suspicious like. Made for his c-car real quick and d-drove off in a hurry. So me, I went inside. I told the girl I th-thought maybe I’d left my glasses when I was there tanning.”
“Your glasses? You don’t wear glasses, and you sure as hell don’t tan. Hell, scrawny thing like you, the sun couldn’t even find you to make an attempt.”
Stanley gave a sly wink, the gesture so unexpected that Dallas couldn’t even start to think of a reaction.
“When the g-girl was in back looking for my glasses, I grabbed the appointment book! I had to look quick like, b-but you know what?”
Dallas waited, curiosity replacing his earlier annoyance.
“You know what, Dal?” Stanley asked again.
“Oh, for… what, Stanley? What?”
“Fancy D-dan had a wax. A wax, Dallas. To get all the hair off his body. So he gets bit by something, big d-dogs go missing near where he lives, and he had a wax.”
A slow whistle slipped through Dallas’s lips. It did make a certain kind of sense. Fancy Dan, the waxed werewolf of Trappersville. Looking out the window at the afternoon sky, Dallas decided now was one of those times when a decision needed to be made. It’s what a Warrior of the Society was supposed to do. Make decisions and take care of business.
“Nice work,” he commended Stanley. “I never much liked that douchebag anyway. Thinks he can just run around being a werewolf in my town? No way. No goddamn way.” Dallas flexed his biceps and pounded his palm with his fist. “We’ll see how fancy he feels with my fist in his face.”
Stanley shook his head. “Oh no, Dallas. Oh no. Can’t be just p-punching him up.
You heard Colton. We g-gotta be sure.”
The urge to hit things he didn’t like warred with his common sense, but eventually Dallas gave in.
“Fine. Let’s go have a chat with that prancy little twit, but ten bucks says he’s our wolf. C’mon, Stan. We’ve got a town to save.”
About twenty minutes later, Dallas had his bowling shoes on and had settled in at the lane next to Fancy Dan. Even though the fall league hadn’t kicked off yet, Dallas was pretty sure he’d find Dan at Bay City Bowlers, the town’s premiere venue for the highly competitive sport. After checking in with Slow Johnson at the counter, his intuition was rewarded when he looked across the lanes and saw the usual cornea-melting collection of colors that defined Fancy Dan’s wardrobe.
“Fancy Dan! You’re a sight, that’s a sure thing.”
If ever someone tired of looking at jeans, flannels and sweatshirts, all they had to do was pull up a chair, flip on some sunglasses, and take a gander at good old Fancy Dan. At the moment, Dan was sporting a white silk neckerchief, a wide-collared, button down shirt that pulled a daunting array of primary colors into haphazard but somehow still geometric patterns, purple velour bell-bottoms, and his usual powder-blue, patent leather bowling shoes.
Dan smirked and gave a theatrical bow. “Clothes make the man,” he patronized. “You never know when the right person might walk through the door. I saw the Stones last summer in Chicago. After the show, I was in the bathroom when Mick walked in. That’s right. The Mick Jagger. He saw me and gave me the sign,” Dan held up his index finger and pinky and pumped his arm. “‘Rock on, dude!’ That’s what he was saying. ‘Rock on!’ Nobody in no high waisted jeans and flannel, or even a lips tee-shirt, got that. I did, because I,” he paused for emphasis, “have style.”
Point made, Dan took up his ball, discoed down the lane, rolled a seven-ten split, and cussed loudly.
“Dammit. Slow Johnson needs to oil these lanes.”
“You’re probably right,” Dallas placated, earning a suspicious look from Dan. “I gotta say, that hook had quite a bit of oomph behind it. You been hitting the gym, Dan? Pumping the old iron?”
Monsters in the Midwest (Book 2): Northwoods Wolfman Page 16
