Lone Lake Killer

by Maxwell, Ian

  Lone Lake Killer

  by

  Ian Maxwell

  Copyright © 2016 Ian Maxwell

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

  Chapter 1

  The yet to kill killer was picking out berries when the guy pulled the gun. Some called it scavenging, others rummaging and a few others foraging, but Lars called it his morning fix. And without his morning fix he was in no mood for bullshit, especially the ones that involved dweebs pointing guns at him.

  From the looks of it the guy in the cashmere sweater, the one pointing the shotgun at him seemed like he was one of those uppity weekend warrior-cum-urban forager type posers. Urban forager, thought the killer – yuck, why would anyone willingly gobble up sulfur and piss covered mushrooms. He kinda got rural foraging and its benefits but urban? What had the planet come to?

  And for some reason this urban forager had felt threatened by the yet to kill killer and felt the need to be a hero or a cowboy or something worse. Was it his own unkempt coat, wondered the yet to kill killer. Perhaps he should tend to his disheveled appearance and maybe wash more often. After all he was a stone’s throw from Lone Lake.

  But none of that mattered at the moment as the urban forager took aim.

  Yeah, he’d heard of people getting angsty around guys like him, but had never come across such a gun moment. The usual tip of the hat from one dude to another did the trick. Hoping to diffuse the situation, Lars waved his right hand in a friendly gesture. But the urban fellow who was probably a Class D douche read the signal wrong and assumed it be an offensive gesture.

  The guy in the cashmere sweater cocked his shotgun.

  “Wufk,” what a nutcase? With no time to rhyme or reason Lars lunged at the urban forager.

  Watching the killer pounce, the guy in the cashmere sweater pulled the trigger.

  CLUCK

  Lars expected a bang or a boom but it was just a quiet cluck. Perhaps the guy had a suppressor.

  CLUCK

  Lars felt no pain. It was the adrenaline. Yep, adrenaline was supposed to mask the initial pain. Yep, Lars had a barrel of adrenaline. Or perhaps the guy was shooting blanks.

  And again CLUCK… CLUCK… CLUCK

  Yep, the idiot’s brand new shotgun – most likely from a nearby Supermart – had jammed. Or the safety was on. Probably both. Whatever the issue was, the killer didn’t mind. You lost some, you won some and this one had Win with a capital W written all over it.

  Sailing through the air, the killer landed on the guy and crushed his windpipe. The urban forager was dead as a dodo. No two ways about it.

  ‘Fuck, did I just kill a fucking guy,’ thought the killer, ‘but, but it was self-defense. The guy pulled a gun. But the gun did jam,’ festered the killer. Not sure about the law’s stance on semantics, the killer decided to play it safe and clean up after himself.

  As the dead guy slid to the ground, the killer caught a whiff of something that was delicious… something great… something porcine. It sure wasn’t the dead guy, no the douche smelt all flowery and French. Nope. Must be wild hogs then. Yeah, a stray bullet must’ve hit a nearby hog and burnt its skin.

  As he rummaged around for the elusive sow, the killer kept circling back to the scene of the crime… the scene that had the guy… the guy in the silly cashmere sweater, his aviators and shotgun… Shotgun.

  ‘Shit, it’s coming off the shotgun,’ thought the killer.

  Examining it closer, Lars noticed the sow-powered lubricant oozing out of the shotgun. The cashmere dude, apparently a gun noob, had gone to town with the sow-based lubricant like a guy trying anal for the first time. And of course, the results hadn’t panned out as expected… or as some would say, exactly as expected.

  ‘Amateurs,’ the killer shook his massive head in derision.

  Having never been a gun guy himself Lars saw no use for the weapon. Kicking away the gun, Lars threw the dead guy over his shoulder and trudged out of the crime scene.

  ***

  “Dude, you sure this is the spot?” Tyler scanned the savannah style wilderness at the edge of town.

  “Umm, it’s Deputy,” said Jake.

  “What?” asked Tyler getting down on a knee to get a better look at the purported crime scene.

  “Deputy… on the job you are supposed to address me as Deputy Stevens.”

  “What, you serious bro?”

  “Absolutely,” Deputy Jake Stevens replied stonily, “protocols are there for a reason man… I mean, Deputy Tyler.”

  “Fine. Deputy Jake Dickhead Jr Stevens, is this where the guy in the cashmere sweater went missing?”

  Flicking through his tiny phone Jake responded, “Indeed Deputy Tyler, indeed. According to his girlfriend, this guy Kip Carmichael went off to forage in the woods…”

  “Forage? What the fuck is that, is that code for like jerking off to raccoons?”

  “Well, that’s what I thought too until I looked it up on Wikipedia. Sadly no. Foraging is the bohemian art of collecting edible fruits and vegetables from their natural habitat…”

  “Um, so like apple picking and wild berries and shit like that?”

  “Yeah, I guess you can call it that.”

  “So why couldn’t you just say that? What’s with all these hi-fidelity verbs dude… I mean Deputy Jake.”

  “Because that’s what Mona Molineaux said.”

  “Mono who?”

  “Not Mono, its Mona. Mona with an ‘a’… Molineaux with an ‘x’.”

  “Now who the fuck is Mona Molineaux? Is she the new dispatcher… wait is she hot? If she is, I’m calling dibs…”

  “No dude… I mean Deputy Tyler, she’s the missing guy’s un-missing girlfriend and just so you know, I’m trying to follow protocol here. We gotta use the same words used in the missing person complaint, which in this case is foraging.”

  Shaking his head Tyler turned to the ground for signs of tire tracks, foot prints, cigarette butts – or anything that could be construed as a clue to this Case of the Missing Cashmere.

  Seventeen hours ago, Lone Lake’s lone Sheriff, Kirk Johnson had taken off to a Hawaii vacation, leaving the safety of Lone Lake and its residents at the hands of his young deputies Tyler Matthews and Jake Stevens. Lone Lake was a peaceful little village far, far away from the interstates with a population of about three hundred. It had two gas stations, a bank, a post office, an inn, a diner, a church, a school… and the eponymous Lone Lake which lay five miles into the sticks. Apart from such boilerplate institutions, Lone Lake was also in the vicinity of a gorge that occasionally doubled as a place for rock concerts.

  “Perhaps he went off to the Moshpit Music Festival,” Tyler proposed.

  “Don’t think so. Guys who wear cashmere sweaters usually consider it beneath them.”

  “Yeah you’re right, never seen anyone with a shirt there.”

  “Or teeth…”

  “Perhaps, he was a record producer or something. Those guys wear cashmere.”

  “First off, labels are dead,” began Deputy Jake, “and even if he was a record label big shot, how’d he go from here? Couldn’t have walked fifteen miles. His rental car is still at the inn. Plus, the Molineaux woman says he went out only with the cashmere sweater and the shot gun they had bought on their drive out here.”

  “And even by Moshpit standards, taking a shotgun to a concert seems a little extreme.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, what about his cellphone?”

  “Left it behind. Wanted to experience something called, being unplugged.”

  “Leaves girlfriend behind… to go foraging in the woods… without a cellphone… that too in an expens
ive girly sweater… sounds like he wanted to get plugged by some secret boy…”

  “Jesus dude, a boy? Really?”

  “Fine… a regular dude then. An average Joe.”

  “Well, that’s just heresy at this point. For the time being, let’s just stick to the facts, okay?”

  “Hmm, don’t see no guns,” said Tyler zigzagging through the bushes as Jake walked the one lane county road, “although for some reason, I do smell bacon.”

  Sniffing the evening air, Jake agreed, “Yeah, that’s bacon, you know what that means right?”

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Bacon flavored shotgun grease,” the deputies chest bumped in jubilation. Their on and off motto was to celebrate small wins. Something to do with kaizen or shin-tsu.

  With that sound deduction, the two began sniffing with fervor. Interspersed with the bacon smells were drifts from fresh raccoon shit, dried fox shit and a plethora of other minor creature shit. Fifteen minutes of solid lung work later, the young deputies coaxed the shotgun from under a bush.

  “Easy there buddy, there could be some prints on it.”

  Under cursory inspection, it became apparent that the twelve gauge had never been fired. It was fully loaded and seemed pretty new. Tyler sniffed it one last time before noting the details on his little phone, “Excessive use of grease. Probably a firearms newbie. Gun looks brand new. Make is suspect. Safety still on. No smells of gun powder. No casings around. Yep, looks little Kip met his maker before he could use his toy.”

  Securing the shotgun in a Supermart sandwich bag, Jake said, “Deputy Tyler, thanks for that insightful and extensive CSI analysis. But for the sake of following protocol and keeping our jobs, I’m going to have to send it to County for analysis.”

  “Whatever, as long as you do it yourself I don’t care.”

  “Yeah, yeah, it’s my turn this time. Plus, I know those guys well…”

  “Protocols…” shrugged Tyler, “as in synonymous with wasting tax payer money.”

  “Dude you one of those against the government types?”

  “Yeah, more like the govmint,” as Tyler ranted on freedom and fiscal policy they continued their search for other stray pieces of evidence. After thrashing around the bushes for ten more minutes, Lone Lake’s young deputies suspended their search. With the light receding it was time to call it a day. Plus they already had a solid piece of evidence to show for progress.

  “Well, looks like the dude just vanished. Poof,” Tyler said with finality.

  “Yeah, so Kip Carmichael came out here with his shiny shotgun… to forage… eats some blueberries… drops gun and vanishes.”

  “And no one saw or heard anything out here?”

  They were at the western edge of Lone Lake well beyond the last house on the old county road.

  “Nope. Postman Tucker said he saw the guy sauntering westward with an air about himself.”

  “What kind of air?”

  “Like a fancy city boy. Tucker says, quote, ‘had a better than you smirk… and a dash of flair…’ unquote.”

  “And that’s our only witness?”

  “If you can call him that, then yeah. Plus, he’s the only eyewitness who actually saw the guy other than his girlfriend Mona and Mrs. Darcy at the inn.”

  Sighing, Tyler asked, “Is it too early to call the Sheriff?”

  “Nope. Tried already. He’s off the grid.”

  “Fuck. So what does this protocol of yours say? Call up County? Get a few cool K-9s, maybe even a chopper, round up the locals…?”

  “Yeah no, that’s not gonna happen. Collin County is already over extended with policing the Moshpit Festival. This year they had to send in their reserves too – dogs, choppers, humans, cars… they are running on fumes.”

  “Dogs too?”

  “Yeah, heard on the radio that a bunch of German shepherds got riled up by the Banana Skin Panties and stormed the stage.”

  “Jesus no, not the Banana Skin Panties.”

  “Yeah, the band abandoned the stage and the dogs took over. Half the crowd didn’t even notice, how cool’s that huh?”

  “Hmm, my heart goes out to the other half. But then again it’s the Moshpit, so whatever. Anyways, so where does that leave us dude… I mean Deputy Jake?”

  Jake checked his phone. It was 6 PM and it was getting dark. The guy in the cashmere had been gone for close to seven hours now. “I don’t know, you want to rile up the folks and form a search party?”

  Tyler cringed at the thought. Searching the woods with a bunch of drunk guys with guns didn’t seem like his idea of a chill Wednesday night. Plus he had a date scheduled for later with that Heather. Shit. Perhaps he could use it as a pretext to take her into the woods and do some serious soul searching…

  “I don’t know dude, seems like a lot of trouble for an idiot,” shrugged Tyler.

  “Yeah you’re right, the guy’s probably an idiot. My guess is he turns up two days from now with tall tales about cannibals and inbreeds and shit eating spiders.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah that’s how it goes down with these city folks. That’s what they think of the backwoods.”

  “I guess.”

  “Plus when was the last time someone went missing from Lone Lake?”

  “Never?”

  “Pre-civil war.”

  “Shit, that far back?”

  “No shit.”

  “But wait, were we even part of the Union back then… thought the North West was all laissez-faire… just lumberjacks, whore houses and Clint Eastwood wannabes.”

  “I don’t know dude, according to the Lone Lake History Center, a bunch of conscripts to the Union army disappeared during a hands on training sess. Two hundred years and counting, no one’s been found.”

  “Great, so not only was Lone Lake apathetic, but when forced to take a side the dudes just deserted. Classic. But whatever, where does that leave us with this cashmere quagmire?”

  Deputy Jake scratched his beard thoughtfully.

  “If he isn’t getting plugged by dudes or devoured by inbreds what did happen to him? Abducted by UFOs?” Tyler persisted.

  “Serial killer.”

  “Serial killer?”

  “Yeah a good old fashioned serial killer,” Jake said ominously.

  “Serial killer… what the fuck? Where did you get that from dude… I mean Deputy Jake?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jake, “we all know the woods aren’t dangerous and Lone Lake isn’t some redneck bastion. Sure we got a few rednecks but what place doesn’t.”

  “Yeah dude, we are neither libtards nor retards. I know all that,” retorted Tyler, “but what made you arrive from a lack of rednecks and half eaten berries to a fucking serial killer?”

  “Umm, if it’s inexplicable, it’s probably a serial killer. It always is.”

  “But… but to be a serial killer,” stuttered Tyler, “the killings have to be serialized… as in, there has to be a history of killings… as in several killings and abductions preceding our missing Kip in the cashmere…”

  “Yeah, but they gotta start somewhere…”

  “What?”

  “The serial killer’s gotta start somewhere. Remember, every serial killer was just a killer at one point.”

  “Jesus dude…”

  “…and from the looks of it, whoever he is… he’s just getting started…”

  “Jesus dude… wait, so you are saying…”

  “… I’m saying that we are on the precipice of some sweet serial killer history in the making…”

  Chapter 2

  WHUMP… WHUMP…

  The killer woke up to darkness and the sounds of a chopper rhythmically whumping the dense night air.

  “Wufk.”

  His senses heightened, Lars listened harder. A couple of dogs howled in the distance as a bunch of mosquitos jazzed nearby. Plus there was some sort of a cacophony going on in the background.

  WOOF. WOOF. CHOP
. CHOP. BZZZ. BZZZ. WHUMP. WHUMP.

  ‘Shit. No good’, thought the killer surveying the sounds and engulfing darkness. ‘How long had he been out?’

  Earlier, he’d dumped the cashmere guy into a shallow grave and covered him up with top soil. Tired from the exertion, he had laid next to the cool grave to catch some shut eye. He’d planned to rest for like ten minutes… twenty tops. Not eight freaking hours.

  WOOF. WOOF. CHOP. CHOP. BZZZ. BZZZ. WHUMP. WHUMP.

  From the slant of its weaving searchlight, the chopper was at least five miles away, somewhere over the gorge. Good. The dogs on the other hand seemed closer. Their barks amplified and modulated. A mile, perhaps more, perhaps less. From their eager doggy yelps they seemed to be homing in on him. Not good. Not good at all.

  ‘Damn those bitches, always crampin’ my style,’ thought Lars as he got up and began formulating a new plan… a Plan B…

  ***

  With a rudimentary Plan B in place, Lars quickly disinterred the grave and pulled out the dead guy. His initial plan had been to follow his instincts and dump the body into Lone Lake. But then the killer wasn’t an asshole… he deeply cared about the environment and waterbodies and the dangers posed by toxins in the food chain. Plus Lone Lake was a friggin lake not a river, wherein its water was largely stagnant. Would only be a matter of time before the thing got stuck in some old fisherman’s line. Nope, the killer needed something safer… something more permanent.

  Brainstorming with himself, Lars stumbled onto the proverbial, ‘dead hooker in the trunk’. The cashmere guy was good looking enough to pass as a male hooker and the town, despite its size had universal needs – air, water, DirecTV and hookers. The killer thought through some potential stashing locations. Most houses in Lone Lake didn’t have garages which was good, but then again most people owned trucks out here which lacked trunks. Eliminating trucks, the shortlisted old lady Martha’s maroon Taurus… the librarian Janice’s new Civic… drunk Bob’s El Camino… the Jensens’ rotting Cutlass… the pastor’s Volvo…

  … shit the Jensens.

  The Jensens were weirdos. Plain and simple weirdos. While other Lone Lakers referred to them as retirees, Lars preferred weirdos. A couple of summers ago they had abandoned their tacky and eponymous Jensen Manor and driven off in a caravan in search of Arizona. So lame. So kitschy.