The Lumberjack

by Erik Martin Willén

  “You still have it here? The box with the information?” Carlos asked eagerly.

  “Of course we do, but before you jump up and down and all over the box, I’m curious. Why now? All this because of a smell?”

  “No. The smell helped, but that’s not it.”

  “Then what?”

  “You hear what happened at Skull Creek, my home town?”

  “Of course. It’s been all over the news for days, I think—sure lives up to its name. Homicide and a grizzly bear killing people?”

  “No, not a bear,” Carlos stated firmly. “It was no bear.”

  Carlos looked down, trying to hide his teary eyes, and then he looked up at Penelope and Anthony, shaking his head a bit awkwardly. “I’m as sane today as I was fifty years ago, despite what the shrinks must have said back then, and now I remember enough, and I know I’ve seen it before. The beast is back. At least, one of them.”

  There was more silence before Perez said, “You are a rational man, it seems, but that story didn’t work out for you fifty years ago, and I doubt you’ll be keeping your sheriff’s star if you say much more about this to anyone.” Perez sighed. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I remember the scared but brave kid you were, and now I see the brave lawman you’ve grown up to be. Your secret is safe with us. You can figure this out if anyone can, Carlos. Keep the box and return it once you’re finished, but start thinking rationally, or this whole thing will consume you from the inside. You should have met Harvey. I’ll give you this, because it’s pretty much what I remember he had written: species dysphoria. Study it well, and you might be on to something.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Few people have, and still, it’s something growing in our society. Species dysphoria is a type of experience of dysphoria—that is, a profound state of unease or dissatisfaction with what you are. Species dysphoria includes clinical lycanthropy, a delusion of existing as an animal, sometimes even to the point of hallucination. The individual might have an excess concern over his or her body, may feel that their body is wrong and have a desire to be an animal—and of course, there can be some sexual arousal in it.”

  “Sounds like those ‘furries,’ the people who dress up in animal suits to have sex. Saw that shit on TV.”

  Anthony paused and took a sip on his lemonade. “Could be a part of it.”

  Penelope told him, “Carlos, something scared you when you were a child, but you’re an adult now. Whatever scared you back then is still scaring you. Don’t let the fright in you take over your reasoning mind. What my beloved has told you, and what his partner researched, is perhaps the only logical explanation.”

  “Yes, I understand that…but can either one of you explain why what I saw fifty years ago looks identical now? If it’s a person, then that person would be really old by now. It doesn’t make any sense.” Carlos sounded a little desperate. “And why would I suddenly see it again?”

  Anthony Perez’s voice took on a lecturing tone. “Let’s be rational and go back in time, and walk through to the present. One, you witnessed a horrific act where, according to your testimony, hairy monsters hurt your people, and they smelled bad. Two, A few days ago your memory returned, probably due to post traumatic stress disorder stemming from the event that’s has been dormant in the back of your mind. The smell, and what you saw again—let’s call it the monster—activated that memory. Three, who was killed in Skull Creek? Was it only one person, or was it more than one? Who were they? Did any of them have any link to what happened in Mexico fifty years ago?”

  “No. I can see no connection between the victim in Skull Creek and what I witnessed in Mexico. There was a second death, but we think it’s a different perp. However, the coroner’s report hasn’t been submitted yet.”

  Anthony continued after Carlos’s reply, “Four. Out of all places, why has it appeared in Skull Creek, where you happened to reside, Carlos?” He paused. “The official report on the investigation fifty years ago was that it was related to a possible drug war, but neither my partner nor I agreed with that. There were no indications of any drug problems in that village, but having said that, we can’t rule out the possibility that a drug lord on some type of vendetta killed them all. Unfortunate as it may be, that could be the reason. However, politics as usual dictated that we close the investigation. The truth is, we didn’t really have anything to work with. Nothing rational, anyway. It was almost as if the incident never occurred.”

  Penelope looked at her husband, confused. “What do you mean? I don’t follow.”

  “Someone involved with drugs might have had relatives in the village, and crossed the wrong people.”

  “You’re saying they would wipe out an entire village for that?”

  “I’m afraid so. Mass graves are found now and then, with no explanation of what happened.”

  Carlos intervened when he sensed tension between Penelope and Anthony. “It’s true, ma’am. Those things do occur. At least it seems like the Mexican government is getting things under control nowadays.” He turned his attention back to Anthony. “But why would it show up again, and in Skull Creek?”

  Penelope walked to the kitchen and got some more coffee for everyone.

  “Tell me, is the village still there?” Carlos pressed.

  “No, Carlos. The people of the village had actually sold all their land for industrial development just before the…incident. We thought at first that could have been the reason behind the killings, but no; they had all been paid handsomely, and as of a matter of fact were celebrating the fact they would all soon be starting new lives with plenty of money. There’s a huge water and power plant there now, operated by the Mexican government. I think that the only problem they had building it was from a few protesters wanting to save the planet and all that.”

  The sun had dropped low on the horizon, its color deepening to orange as it began setting. The sky was stained with pink fire along the horizon.

  Anthony leaned forward and spoke softly. “I think it’s you. If it’s back, you’re the reason this monster is in Skull Creek. You were a witness to a horrific crime—the only witness. Before we had personal computers, finding you would have been next to impossible, but nowadays, with all the information out there, including classified leaks from our government…well, this could very well be some sort of personal vendetta.”

  “You’ve got a point there, but again, it doesn’t answer the question. If it’s a man, then how old is he, assuming it’s a he?”

  Penelope looked at her grandchildren goofing around with the trainer, while protesting loudly at having to bring the horses to the barn. “He would have to be ancient. Unless…”

  Carlos asked, “Unless what?”

  Anthony, “Yes, dear, what’s on your mind? Because right now, I got nothing for our new friend.”

  “Unless this has been going on for generations. And is still going on.”

  “Could be.” Anthony stood up and walked over to the railing, where he lit his second cigar, his back turned to the others. “As much as I want to help you, Carlos, because I feel that I owe you somehow…you really don’t have much of a case here. There’s no evidence, really. For all we know, there might have been a dead animal or a skunk nearby when you saw the victim. You admit that when you saw this thing, the weather conditions were as bad as they could get—rain, darkness, and lightning. You shot at it, but don’t know if you hit it at a distance of, what, 50 yards?”

  “About that distance, yes.”

  “Unless you can produce any physical evidence, you have nothing but a horrible memory that returned to you, and as much as I hate to say it, your mind might have played a trick on you.”

  Anthony turned, facing Carlos. “Don’t ruin your career on this, son. In a few years, you can retire. Think about that and your family. Some memories are best kept hidden.”

  After a short farewell, Anthony and Penelope stood on the front porch and watched as Carlos drove away.

  “Do y
ou think he will follow your advice?” Penelope asked in Spanish.

  “No, I do not.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I think he believes that he saw something, and he won’t let it go, not now. Unsolved mysteries sometime become like a drug for those of us in law enforcement…investigating them can be like an addiction, an irritating itch you can’t escape, and Carlos has it. He’s afraid, and that itself probably goes against his nature. He’ll never stop now, not until he’s solved this puzzle or died trying.”

  “But you insisted that he doesn’t have any case.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Carlos believes that he’s onto something, and he won’t stop his hunt; not now, not ever, I fear.”

  Anthony hugged her tightly, then let go of his embrace and headed to the main door back to the house. He stopped in the doorway when Penelope said, “But what if he’s right? What if it is a person?”

  Anthony, still standing in the doorway with his back turned, said, “Then he better find it, bag it, and tag it, or he’ll ruin his life and his family’s. I pray that never happens.”

  Christina woke up that morning to a buzzing sound, alerting her of someone approaching her home. With her head still buried in the pillow, she turned her head and opened her right eye, looking at the monitor on the wall. There were two vehicles; one SUV and a truck. She closed her eyes and let the medicine take her back to her slumber while hugging her pillow, and then the damn doorbell rang repeatedly, as if someone had found a new toy, and it wouldn’t stop.

  “Shit!”

  She tossed her blanket aside and jumped out of bed, still tired, not noticing that her left foot was caught up in her bed sheet. She hurried to the door and suddenly fell head-first to the floor, like an idiot.

  “Fuck! That hurt,” she yelled at herself.

  She got up and left the master suite, and immediately did a one-eighty back into the bedroom. Opening the door naked wouldn’t be good. She walked into the walk-in closet, which was pretty much empty but for some of her clothes she had brought with her and recently bought. She grabbed some shorts and a T-shirt and slipped them on, then looked for her soft slippers, because she didn’t like getting her feet dirty. Couldn’t find them. The damned doorbell kept ringing, reminding her to hurry. When she left the closet, she glanced at her alarm clock by the side of her bed, and when she saw how early it was, Christina became a fury to be reckoned with. This had better not be some idiot reporter. She hurried downstairs and yanked the door open.

  “WHAT!”

  Christina was just about to give the morning terrorist a piece of her mind when she was interrupted by a finger wagging in front of her face, leaving her openmouthed. In a lecturing voice, Peter demanded, “Now, before you opened the door, did you check on who was outside?”

  Christina stuttered something incoherent.

  “Thought not. Well, Missy, you really need to improve on that. I could have been a fan from hell…and we’ll just leave it at that.”

  Some moron honked a horn.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Billing sends you his regards. Is the coffee on?”

  “What? Who? No, wait…”

  Peter headed inside, while Kevin parked a mid-size Mercedes-Benz X-Class, king cab, matte-black pickup with enormous off-road tires. It had an equally humongous red ribbon tied over the trunk. There were all types of extra doodads all over the truck, and there it was again: that annoying sound from the goddamn horn, again and again. She was going to have to rip it out if they didn’t stop.

  Christina held up both arms, hands curled into claws. “Stop honking the horn, you shithead! I’ll do anything, just make it stop!”

  A smiling Kevin leaned out the window, having stopped playing with his new toy. “Then do something hot and sexy!”

  Christina sighed. “And it heard us.”

  “Show us some skin, toots!” Kevin shouted, and then did a three-sixty burn-out with the truck as dust, sand, small rocks, and wood chips flew all over.

  Christina turned one-eighty herself, waving both hands to Kevin, but with only her middle fingers erect. As she went back inside, she bumped into a strong chest.

  “There is no coffee, did you know that?” Peter complained. She shoved at him and he refused to move; he stood calm as day in the doorway, like an old bouncer blocking the entrance to a bar.

  “Yeah, I know. Someone just woke up,” she snarled.

  He patted the top of her head, knowing it would drive her nuts. “Don’t you worry about a thing, darlin’, in a few minutes there’ll be some fresh coffee.”

  “Well, I’m glad you feel at home.”

  Someone had the audacity to pinch her left buttock, and Christina turned red as a stoked furnace as she turned around. In her face was a long chain with two high-tech keys hanging from it; she had to cross her eyes to see them. She shook her head to get her vision back to normal, and there stood the other morning terrorist with a smile stretching from ear to ear. Suddenly the brute behind her whisked her off her feet, under wild protest from Christina.

  “Wait, you bastards, wait! I don’t have any shoes on!”

  Peter tossed Christina over her shoulder, and under wild protest from her he slapped her ass, pretty hard. “Spoiled brat. What to do, what to do?”

  “We could toss her over the cliff into the river. It’s not too high a few hundred yards from here.”

  “Too far. Wait, what about the nice fountain at the gazebo?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Christina now lay over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “You wouldn’t dare. This will not improve my head injury!”

  “Mind over matter, girlie.” Slap.

  She struggled frenetically and punched Peter’s back over and over again as he headed for the small structure. “I’ll give you a piece of my mind, you fucking matter—wait, wait…no, no, no, No, NO!”

  There was a splash from the gazebo, followed by a lot of profane language coming from a very angry little woman.

  When Christina found them in the house, drinking coffee, she was soaked and looked like something from out of a horror movie, with leaves and small branches stuck in her messy hair and on her face. “You motherfuckers! You’re in so over your heads I’m going to…”

  “Make us breakfast, or we’ll follow up on a piece of advice your brother gave us last New Year’s Eve at Mr. Billing’s party.”

  “And what advice was that, Kevin?” she said dangerously. Christina stood facing them, her fists clenched and planted on her hips, leaning forward; she was so mad she trembled, and then she gave them The Stare. Didn’t work, though.

  “I think he said something about someone having this huge secret of being…what was it, Peter?”

  Peter had his head stuck in a newspaper, sitting on one of the bar stools by the kitchen island, drinking coffee.

  “Ticklish. I recalled he said she was terribly ticklish. Perhaps the thighs. Hell, all over, I think he said.”

  Christina suddenly stepped her right foot over her left and in her softest, most loving voice she said, “Scrambled eggs, coming up.”

  “Yeah, I want some bacon too, and toast. Don’t forget the toast.”

  “Me too.”

  The two morning terrorists ate their breakfast while Christina sat there, still wet, letting the air dry her off. They had never once reacted in the least to her wet, clingy, semi-transparent top. She had the most mischievous expression as she observed the two men eating like pigs; she didn’t eat anything.

  “So tell me,” she drawled, “how long have you guys been a couple? A year, maybe two?”

  Kevin and Peter froze, then looked up from their plates at each other, surprised. With his mouth half-full, Kevin stuttered, “What? We…how did you know?”

  Christina got up from her seat and walked up the stairs. “I didn’t for sure, but I do now.” She turned and waggled her index finger at them.

  While she showered and finally got dressed, she thought about Peter and Kevin. Sh
e loved them both like family, and had known them for years. Despite their horrible behavior, she felt guilty about outing them, and decided to apologize when she got back downstairs.

  Christina went into her bedroom and walked over to the controls on the wall, pushed the button opening the blinds, then screamed when she found herself face-to-face with Mr. Peeping Tom, the owl from hell.

  She held her chest and started to laugh at herself. The bloody bird had moved even closer, and was almost right inside; she definitely had to do something about that branch. Suddenly she felt someone behind her; she turned around, and there stood Peter. “You okay, Chris?”

  She faced him, remembering one more reason why she loved these two big lugs. “I’m fine.” She pointed over her shoulder with her thumb, back turned to the owl. “Just startled by my new boyfriend.”

  She noticed Peter’s hand moving away from his shirt; under it, she knew, he had a weapon. “So, shall we check out your new gift?” he asked brightly.

  They went outside and there was Kevin, sweeping her driveway with a push-broom. She said, "Hey guys, I'm sorry for what I said before. I didn’t mean to pry, and…”

  Peter patted her on her shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Mr. Billing knows.”

  Kevin smiled at her. “But we’d like to remain in the closet, so to speak, with our work and all.”

  “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “And your feet are safe from us,” Peter assured her.

  “Speak for yourself, Peter—if she acts like a spoiled brat, we just do what her parents once told us many years ago: we bring her back down to earth.”

  “Wait a minute! I’ve worked and sacrificed a lot all my life. Everything I have I’ve earned, so there.”

  Peter and Kevin raised their eyebrows, looked at her and then at her brand-new truck, and then back at her.

  “Okay, so I’m a little spoiled.”

  They went over the truck meticulously with Christina, and she fell in love with the comfortable seats. Kevin and Christina took the truck for a run, while Peter remained, unpacking many black crates filled with high-tech items.