Insatiable Series Omnibus Edition (Books 1-3)

by Patrick Logan

  “Sheriff Paul White,” she began, her voice suddenly changing, becoming more professional, “are there any leads on the missing boy? On Tyler Winicky?”

  The sheriff rolled his eyes.

  “No comment. At this time, the investigation is ongoing, and we are not in a position to discuss any details.”

  The reporter’s face went sour, her bright red lips turning downward. She looked back at her fat cameraman and rested her hand on the top of the lens, indicating that he should lower the camera. The man, looking as if he might pass out from all the running, obliged, and then proceeded to head back to the truck, where he nearly collapsed on the rear bumper.

  “Paul?” Nancy asked, once again turning back to the sheriff.

  Coggins watched as the woman reached up and laid a gentle hand on the sheriff’s shoulder, her bright green eyes sparkling. She was pretty, Coggins realized: full lips, big green eyes, and a smoking body.

  One of the sheriff’s eyebrows raised, and his eyes quickly darted to Coggins and back again.

  Coggins smirked. It all made sense now.

  Tsk, tsk, Paul. Relations with the media, a definite no-no.

  The reporter’s hand fell away, and she cleared her throat.

  “Anything you can give me, Sheriff. Anything at all.”

  The sheriff seemed to mull this over for a minute before slowly shaking his head.

  “I’m sorry, Nancy, I really have nothing right now. Just a crazy story from a bunch of scared kids whose friend went missing.” The sheriff shrugged. “That’s all I’ve got, really.”

  The reporter lowered her gaze, and Coggins sized her up a little more. She was younger than he and the sheriff, maybe by a good five years or so, but she was undeniably pretty, even if her features were a little small. She had smallish breasts, but ample hips and ass, which was made more evident by the fact that she had to continually tug at the bottom of her yellow dress to keep it from riding up and showing her underwear. Coggins glanced from the sheriff and then back to the reporter.

  Lucky dog, he thought, his thoughts turning briefly to the woman that he had solicited in the bathroom of the grungy biker bar. Lucky dog.

  When Nancy raised her eyes again, her expression had softened, a look that Coggins knew well: the pleading of a present or past lover.

  Lucky, lucky dog.

  “Tell me this, then, Sheriff: do you think that this is related to the string of kidnappings over in Pekinish a couple of years back?”

  Sheriff White looked skyward for a moment, then bit the inside of his lip.

  “Don’t think so, no,” he said, slowly shaking his head. “Doesn’t seem to fit the bill. Besides, this is a missing boy, while, as far as I know, all the missing kids in Pekinish are female.”

  Nancy nodded slowly.

  “And have you talked to anyone over there? The police over in Pekinish?”

  The sheriff frowned and turned away from the woman, taking large steps in the direction of the Wharfburn Estate.

  “You said one more question.”

  Coggins watched as the reporter hurried to keep up with the big man.

  “But no,” the sheriff continued, “I haven’t spoken to anyone over there—yet.”

  The woman stopped following then, knowing as all the good reporters do when there was no information to be gleaned from a source, no matter how personal their relationship.

  The woman nodded at Coggins, then hurried back to her colleague, who was still resting on the back of the truck, his thick torso still heaving with deep breaths.

  When she was out of earshot, Coggins placed a hand on the sheriff’s shoulder. The big man kept walking.

  “Really?” Coggins asked, his voice dripping with humor. “Really, Paul? Nancy Whitaker of AC News?”

  When the sheriff pulled his arm away from Coggins’ grip, the deputy laughed. But another few paces and the Wharfburn Estate came into view, and the chuckle caught in his throat.

  For a few minutes, Coggins had returned to his old self, teasing the big sheriff. But now, with the Wharfburn Estate looming before them, all the humor left him. Instead, all he felt was dread, pain, and despair. This was a horrible place—a place of nightmares.

  10.

  The morning was already hot and humid when Corina Lawrence arrived at Gillespe MMA. At half past nine in the morning, the doors were still closed, but Corina knew that Frank Gillespe would be inside, cleaning wrestler sweat from the mats or taping up new rips on the ancient punching bags.

  Corina waited for the bus doors to hiss closed and drive off before swinging the small canvas duffel onto her shoulder and hurrying across the street. Concentrating hard, she tried to make her gait look as natural as possible as she jogged across the road, pulling her prosthetic leg beneath her and pushing it back behind like her good leg. When she got to the other side, she resumed walking again, slipping the bag from one shoulder to the other. Corina hadn’t packed much in the duffel bag, just a handful of light clothing, but now she was beginning to regret not packing more; she had no idea how long she might be back in Askergan.

  Back in Askergan.

  The thought drove a shudder through her, but she willed this sensation away. She had been waiting her whole life for this, for a chance to figure out what had happened to her and her family, and getting cold feet on a hot morning like this was out of the question.

  Corina banged on the steel door with a flat hand, listening closely as the echo of her knocking faded and was followed by stirring. There was a momentary silence, and then she heard some shuffling steps coming toward the door. A second later, the latch was removed and the door pulled open.

  “Frank,” Corina said quickly, “I need a favor.”

  The man in his mid-sixties standing in the doorway eyed her suspiciously, his wiry black-and-grey eyebrows knitting together.

  Without waiting for an answer, Corina pressed forward, swinging first her good leg then the prosthetic one across the threshold.

  Frank Gillespe stepped aside and allowed her to pass. When she was fully inside, he closed the large metal door and latched it again.

  “I’m going back to Askergan,” Corina said bluntly when Frank turned to face her again. “I’m going back to Askergan to finish up some business.”

  Her eyes were trained on him, trying to read his reactions. For once, the man looked tired: thick, dark circles clinging to the underside of his eyes, the lines around his mouth pulled downward a little further than usual. She often forgot that Frank would turn seventy in just a few short years, probably based on how good a shape he was in and his seemingly ineffable energy storage. But as soon as she had said those words—Askergan—his strength seemed to have been sapped.

  Corina had purposely pushed thoughts of how this conversation would go during the bus ride over, worried that the more thought she put into her actions, the less likely she would be to carry through with them. But now, staring at his tired, incredulous expression, she was riddled with guilt and embarrassment.

  You’re not a kid anymore, Corina. Grow up; move on.

  She shook her head.

  “I need to borrow some cash,” Corina continued quickly.

  Frank Gillespe surprised her by immediately nodding. Without a word, he turned and made his way slowly to the small office at the back of the gym, just beyond the boxing ring.

  “Come with me,” he said, his voice, as always, mixed with gravel.

  Now it was Corina’s turn to nod.

  She stared at the back of his grey cut-off t-shirt and thin cotton track pants as she followed the man that had guided her through so many tough times over the years, and she slowly became lost in thought. And, as her mind was wired to do, it soon drifted to what might have been—what might have been if her father hadn’t insisted on heading to Grandma’s house that Christmas, what might have happened if she hadn’t broken her leg playing outside. Her thoughts darkened.

  What would have happened if I hadn’t found Frank back when I was struggling
along on one leg?

  “Corina? Are you listening?”

  Corina shook the thoughts from her head.

  Focus, she scolded herself.

  When she raised her eyes, she realized that Frank had stopped walking and had turned to face her again, only this time his eyebrows were high on his forehead. A multitude of creases splayed outward on his forehead, congregating around the outer corners of his eyes like a nest of snakes.

  “I said, ‘I knew this day would come’.”

  Even though Corina had heard the comment this time, she still didn’t respond; she didn’t know what to say.

  The thing was, she’d known this day would come, too. In a strange way, Corina thought it was the reason why she had accepted Frank’s challenge all those years ago, why she trained so vigorously for an opponent that hadn’t reared its ugly head—an opponent that manifested as her past.

  Until now.

  “I am only going to ask you one thing, and that’s it,” Frank continued, his expression, while still tired, shifting from surprised and suspicious to paternal.

  Corina nodded as Frank turned again and reached into his office. She heard him fiddle with a metal box on his desk, pulling out a stack of worn bills. When he turned toward her again, he held the stack out to her. She hesitated, waiting for his question.

  Now it was her turn to be suspicious.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, his lips pressing together tightly.

  Corina bit the inside of her lip as she mulled the question over.

  Truth was, she wasn’t sure—not at all. The thought of going back to that place—to the exact location that had taken so much from her and from the ones that she loved—was terrifying. But both she and Frank had known that this day would eventually come. She just hadn’t known it would be so soon.

  Corina offered a slow nod in the form of response, which Frank returned.

  It was time—it was time to vanquish this final demon.

  Frank offered the stack of money, which Corina now saw was made up of a mixture of about ten or fifteen fives and tens.

  “Then take this,” the man said.

  Corina thought about refusing the cash, about feigning disinterest, playing the ‘oh, gee, I couldn’t possibly’ card, but that wasn’t her. No more faking it. In fact, if she was being true to herself and the gentle old man standing across from her, it was one of the reasons she had come to this place. Not the only reason, surely, but she needed money, if only to make it to Askergan by train.

  She took the money, then reached for the man and hugged him fiercely.

  Frank hugged her back.

  “You never knew my dad,” she said slowly as they separated. There were tears in her eyes. “You never knew my dad, but I know he would be grateful for all that you’ve done for me.”

  Frank Gillespe nodded.

  Corina sniffed, wiped the tears from her face with the back of her sleeve, and then jammed the small wad of cash into the pocket of her jeans.

  Over the past four or five years, Corina had spoken to Frank about what had happened in Askergan more than to anyone else, her mother included—it was her catharsis. Her uncle had tried repeatedly to reach out to her in the time since the storm, but each and every time she had politely declined—he was just too close to what had happened, too familiar. When she had spoken to Frank, the story had been abstract, with her spitting out the words like a tale that she had observed instead of one lived. That wouldn’t have been possible with Jared. And now the only thing that she had from her uncle was the worn and folded piece of paper in her pocket.

  Deputy Bradley Coggins—he’s one of us, one of the good guys.

  It had been too much for her then fragile mind to deal with, and it was better for her to shut things out—talking to Jared would have only brought back memories. Only in this place, in this holy sanctuary of the MMA world where she could pound her frustrations out on the arms and legs and faces of other equally troubled individuals, could she speak the truth—and who else would be there to listen but the holy minister of this sacred parish?

  “Corina?” the elderly man before her asked, his eyebrows pulling downward. “Remember that you are still suspended for a month.”

  Corina smiled and leaned forward to place a gentle kiss on his wrinkled cheek.

  “I’ll be back long before that,” she replied, then left Gillespe MMA for the last time.

  11.

  Newly re-deputized Bradley Coggins found every step more difficult than the last, his body struggling to cut through the air like a fly trying to navigate through a block of softened butter.

  There was evil here—still here—and it took all of his willpower to stop the images of what had happened in Mrs. Wharfburn’s now charred front foyer from tumbling back to the forefront of his mind. He had spent the better part of the past decade trying to drown out those visions with cheap whiskey and cheaper women.

  Evidently, he had failed.

  “Coggins? Let’s head to the kitchen, okay?”

  Coggins nodded, trying hard to swallow the fist-sized lump in his throat.

  His eyes lingered on the thick black char mark in the center of the room.

  Dana, don’t get down!

  He closed his eyes and shook his head hard, bringing a hand to his left temple.

  Fuck.

  “Coggins?”

  Somewhere far away, Coggins realized that the man had stopped, and he used the hand not affixed to the side of his head to usher the man forward.

  “Keep going,” he grumbled through gritted teeth. “Just a headache.”

  He wanted—needed—to be out of this front foyer immediately.

  The kitchen was in desperate need of an update, the pale brown wooden cabinets with their thick metal handles indicative of a style long past its due date. The fridge and stove were equally dated, huge white plastic-looking beasts that crowded the space. For such a massive house, the kitchen was small, dated, and stale. But compared to the entrance and foyer, the kitchen was pretty much untouched.

  The sheriff used the pad of his finger to trace a line in the dust-covered quartz countertop. In doing so, he stirred a thick dust cloud into the air, which immediately made him cough.

  Coggins brought his hand away from the side of his head. Now that they were in another part of the house, a part where he had never been before, his mind started working overtime trying to compartmentalize, to render his memories once again abstract.

  It worked—for now.

  The trapdoor in front of the fridge was still open, the rusty metal hinge folding the four-foot square piece of tiled floor completely backward, revealing a dark passage into the basement below. The thin layer of dust on the floor around the trapdoor and throughout the kitchen was disturbed, which jived with the Griddle boy’s story. Someone had been here recently.

  Coggins had also found remnants of glass on the floor in the foyer before he had hurried through—the vodka—which was also consistent with Kent’s story.

  The sheriff nodded toward the opening in the floor.

  “Might be too tight for me to fit,” he offered.

  Coggins frowned and shook his head.

  “If you think I’m—”

  The sheriff cut him off by raising a large hand.

  “We’ll both go.”

  Not what I was thinking, but okay.

  The idea of staying alone in the kitchen while the sheriff went below was almost as bad as the prospect of heading into the stinking darkness alone—not as bad, but close.

  Coggins went down first, mainly a result of physics, at the sheriff’s request, who noted that if something went wrong, Paul could quickly pull him back up again.

  The first thing that struck Coggins when his feet landed on the ground below was the dust: it was everywhere, suspended in the air like a miniature galaxy. He waved a hand in front of his face, but this only served to send the galaxy into rotation.

  “Toss the flashlight down,” he hollered to the sheriff abov
e, his voice cracking.

  He coughed and then swallowed a few times, trying desperately to moisten his incredibly dry throat. It was dry and dusty in the basement, there was no doubt of that, but there was something else about it that bothered Coggins; it smelled bad down there, really bad, a funk that reminded him of six years ago…

  Stop it, he chided himself.

  He reached up and grabbed the flashlight from the sheriff’s outstretched hand and flicked it on. His breath caught in his throat.

  “Sheriff?” Coggins’ voice wavered. “Get your big ass down here.”

  There was a stirring sound from the kitchen above, but Coggins kept his eyes trained on the scene before him. Even as he took two steps to his left to allow room for the big man to fall into the basement, careful to avoid the smashed staircase, he kept his eyes aimed straight ahead.

  A moment later, a heavy thud sounded from his right as the sheriff lowered himself into the room. At just over six feet of headroom, the sheriff had to crane his neck uncomfortably to avoid bumping his head on the lowered floor beams.

  “God, it stinks in here,” the sheriff muttered, slapping his big hands together, sending more dust swirling into the humid air. “What—?”

  But the sheriff left the sentence unfinished as his gaze followed the flashlight beam for the first time.

  For a few seconds, the sheriff and Deputy Coggins just stood silently in the dusty basement, staring at the wet mess before them.

  There were about a half dozen, maybe more, animal pelts scattered on the floor by the back wall of the basement, some folded over themselves, others appearing as if they had been laid flat.

  Skin.

  Coggins shuddered and suddenly felt cold despite the heat.

  Laying on the floor in front of the skins were an equal number of beach ball-sized spheres, the tops of which were ragged and broken. Coggins let his gaze fall to the crescent-shaped bottoms and noted some residual pink fluid still clinging to the translucent surface.