Mr. Left Brain stepped through the door.
“Change of plans,” J. J. said. “Dinner’s on the backburner.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jeff Keats is out sick tonight, and Einar Cerda’s transporting a couple of prisoners over to county lockup. That Garcia kid from California’s pretty much running the show, and he’s out on a domestic dispute call. Since all I’ve got is a suspicion your boy Barlow is going to jump a restraining order, there’s no way Glen gets priority. Besides, I wouldn’t want to put the kid up against Barlow and Kale Howard, even if he was available. Not by his lonesome, anyway. You ask me, both those guys belong in strait-jackets.”
“Can’t they call in someone from the day shift?”
“Sure. They could start with Randall, like they did last Christmas Eve. He’d love that.”
“Who then?”
“Well, if someone’s stupid enough to be proactive when nothing’s happened yet, he might head out there. Someone with a solid knowledge of the parties involved. Of course, an idiot like that would have to put his off-duty self in the middle of things and worry about lawsuits later—”
“If you’re saying that you’re doing this off the clock, I’m going with you.”
“Don’t be crazy, Lisa. Let’s leave that job to your buddy the road dog. I think he’s made for it.”
Bryce grabbed his gunbelt from the chair and buckled it on.
“Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll go catch some bad guys and get our phone back.”
Lisa laughed, then kissed him.
“Thanks,” she said.
“No need, darlin’. But let’s not let this get too complicated. You just remember who’s going to walk through the door when this is over.”
“I’ll remember,” she said.
“Okay.” Bryce stepped outside. “Be back soon. Don’t worry.”
“I won’t.”
“Liar.”
Lisa laughed again. Another kiss that was too quick, and then J. J.’s truck was raising a cloud of dust as he headed for the highway. Lisa watched him go, and she kept on watching after the dust settled and the truck had disappeared from view.
The night air was cool.
The crickets had gone quiet.
Lisa sat on the back step and tried to think of nothing at all.
Behind the house he’d shared with Kim Barlow—the same house he’d once exited through a window thanks to her brother Glen—Kale Howard eyed Tres Manos.
The place the Anglo locals called The Hands was a sight to see, even from this distance. It was something different every time you looked at it. Red as a thickening puddle of blood in the hard light of afternoon. Black as the devil’s silhouette in the hours past midnight . . . and right now, with silver moonlight creeping up its backside, it was as smoky and ethereal as a dream any fool could climb.
Kale smiled. Though he stood in darkness, that same moonlight crept up his spine like a dozen furious scorpions in a hurry to plant stings at the base of his brain. In his world, that wasn’t unfamiliar feeling, and it dug down to his core like a grave robber’s shovel, churning up secrets buried in the deepest, darkest corners of the shriveled black hunk he called his soul.
There were visions in that place that would have made a sane man slash his wrists. Visions of women like Kim Barlow as they screamed their last screams, and visions of Kim Barlow herself, on the final night of her life, out there in the desert beneath a towering hunk of rock that might as well have been a gigantic tombstone.
They weren’t exactly Kale’s visions. Not completely. They were owned in part by the thing that lived inside him, the disease that sent those scorpions scurrying across his spine. But the visions were nothing to be feared, any more than he feared the silhouette of Tres Manos in the distance. And, hell, if he raised a hand right now, he could cover up that mother-of-all tombstones where Kim had died, and he could do the job with one little finger. This he did. And just that fast, every memory of Kim Barlow vanished from his mind except that very last one . . . and, for Kale, that was the one worth keeping.
The moonlight brought it home. As its clean halo broke over the rim of The Hands, the memory shimmered in the clear white light surrounding Kale’s raised finger. Quite suddenly, his raised finger itched as if those ghostly scorpions had launched their own dark visionquest, scrambling across the enormous sandstone tombstone that rose from the desert of Kale’s hand, jabbing barbed tales into that tower, reducing it to fine grains, burrowing through Kale’s flesh and blood and bone until they unearthed that bedrock of hidden memory.
Kim’s final fright . . . and just as final understanding.
For Kale, that single moment defined his entire relationship with Kim Barlow. He understood that . . . just as he understood that it paid to take his time when those moments rose from the shadows. They were the ones that truly counted.
He’d taken his time with Kim, all right. Together, they’d gone to Tres Manos, sharing a picnic dinner as dusk turned to night. Kale had made sure Kim understood the lies he’d told, stripping them away from the truth with the same relish he stripped meat away from a bone. And when he was finished doing that little job he did another, taking what he wanted from Kim in the shadow of a great tombstone he could eclipse with a single finger.
He took it in a fury born of cursed moonlight and patience and spite. Under other circumstances Kale would have lingered with the memory, but it was time for it to go. His mind cremated every image, and his pointing finger curled into a fist along with its neighbors, and his fist tightened. Chrome skull rings gnashed on his fingers like five monsters grinding bones to make their bread. The moon crested about the towers. Kale extended his fingers. He had to. Each one was lengthening now, growing black claws that sliced the shadow he cast.
Those ghostly scorpions raised tails and drove spikes home, and the venom of the moon delivered fresh visions to Kale’s mind . . . visions of Kim’s brother. The bastard had been in Kale’s head all day. Even when the moon was shining on another part of the world, he’d known Glen Barlow was coming. The scorpions had told him so, and he had trusted each sting of warning, and each scent raised by his daylight visions.
And he’d scented the bastard, all right . . . even in his visions. The oil burning in Barlow’s old pickup had scalded his nostrils, and he’d smelled the bastard’s sweat as he stood out there in the desert, and he’d retched at the stink of Barlow’s puke as the hardcase gave up his misery in the dull heat of dusk. And now the visions were stronger. Barlow was coming closer. Barlow was almost here. That burning motor oil was a hot rag in the mouth of the night, and the stink of gun oil etched in the whorls of Barlow’s fingerprints bore the raw perfume of vengeance.
The fact that Barlow had a gun didn’t worry Kale, for the bullets in Barlow’s pistol did not bear the acrid stench of a single grain of silver. That meant Kale had nothing to fear from the weapon. And if Kale did not fear Barlow’s gun, he would not fear Glen Barlow. Not when his own fingers were tipped with razor claws that could slice flesh to ribbons. Not when growing teeth twisted and scraped in his mouth, carving a brutal path against thickening gums.
And that wasn’t the end of it. Soon Kale’s jaws were heavy with fangs. Black bristles of fur spiked from a dozen monsters tattooed on his arms. Moonlight poured over the desert, and Kale’s shadow stretched across the sand as he grew larger—tendons cording over lengthening bone, muscles getting heavier.
But the moon was carving him down, too. It whittled away everything but the basics, the way those jabbing scorpions had chiseled at the sandstone tower in his vision . . . cutting away everything that had once protected Glen Barlow, skinning hesitation and fear from Kale’s heart, tearing off every mask he had ever been forced to wear.
Moonlight carved the werewolf as brutally and efficiently as the Reaper’s own predatory scythe. And what the moon left behind was the same . . . and nothing but.
PART TWO
As he neared Kim’s house, Glen
killed the headlights. He pulled the pickup to the side of the road, parking beneath an old mesquite tree a hundred yards from the entrance to her property. Night had dropped its veil, but there were still shadows here. The gnarled branches overhead netted the stark silver light of the full moon, casting twisted shadows on the hood of Glen’s old truck.
Glen reached under the seat and grabbed his pistol. He stepped from the truck and cut a path through the night, following the road at a slow trot until he came to the rock-lined drive leading to Kim’s house. He stood there for a moment, in full moonlight now. If anyone inside the house was looking through a window, they’d surely see him . . . but every window was dark, and so were the rusted railroad lanterns hanging from the heavy-beamed overhang that covered the front patio.
There weren’t any other houses nearby. Just that silver moonlight, and desert that didn’t so much as ripple until it ran into Tres Manos, many miles away. Quietly, Glen moved down the final twenty feet of the drive. He put a hand on the hood of Kale’s Mustang as he passed by, but the car was as cold as the house was dark.
Sand crunched lightly beneath Glen’s boot heels. Out on the road, a driver shifted gears. Glen ducked low, but the car didn’t enter Kim’s driveway. Headlights cast cold beams over the front of the house as the car passed by. Glen caught a quick glimpse of his reflection in the bedroom window, the light trapping his image on the pane for what seemed a long moment. Then the light moved on, smearing across the rest of the house, sweeping the shadows beneath the patio overhang as it passed, revealing the heavy slab of a front door and the old string of chili peppers hanging there . . . and, past that, a weathered sheet of plywood, still nailed over the front window.
Glen shook his head. Maybe Kale was too lazy to fix the window, or maybe the bastard didn’t want anyone looking inside. It didn’t matter to Glen. One way or another, he planned to take a good long look in the house. As the sound of the passing car’s engine faded in the distance, he stepped onto the flagstone patio and crossed through the shadows beneath the overhang. Here the air was heavy with the fragrance of climbing roses; the plants wound around stout support posts like gnarled muscles, vines heavy with blooms cradled by the overhang above.
It was darker here, but Glen’s night vision was good. He spotted a stack of cut piñon near the boarded-up window. Grabbing a length of it, he pressed his back to the brick wall near the heavy slab of a front door.
Glen tossed the piñon across the patio. The log clattered loudly against flagstone as it landed fifteen feet away. If anyone was inside the house, they wouldn’t be able to ignore the noise.
Glen waited. No sound from within, and no lights came on. His breaths came faster now, and the butt of the pistol jammed into his jeans nudged at his belly.
Needles of silver light pierced the roses overhead as the moon rose higher.
The sweet fragrance of the flowers was heavy on the night air.
Glen filled his lungs with it.
He tested the doorknob.
It was locked.
Damn. Glen drew another breath . . . but this time he choked on it. Because suddenly there was another smell—a sour animal stink, as if something dead was trapped up there in the rose vines.
And then there was a sound. Glen jolted as a hunk of piñon clattered over the flagstones at his feet and bounced off the door—the same hunk of wood he’d tossed just a few moments before. He spun quickly, drawing his pistol as he turned toward the thing that had thrown the log . . . the thing that had been stalking him since he’d first stepped from his truck.
Because this was no man. Something down deep in Glen’s gut recognized that before his mind could accept it. The shadow that faced him was enormous . . . and grinning . . . and red-eyed . . . and it moved much faster than Glen could possibly move.
It came straight at him. Before he could raise his pistol, the thing caught him with one hairy shoulder and hammered him against the door. The hanging chili peppers went to powder behind his back. The shadow snatched his wrist and yanked him forward, and Glen was suddenly spinning like a child launched from a Tilt-A-Whirl, heels scrapping over flagstone and then rising above it, the thing’s clawed hands tight on his wrist . . . tighter still when the monster cracked the whip.
Glen’s body was jerked so hard he was sure his left shoulder had popped from its socket. But it wasn’t his left shoulder he needed to worry about. It was the right one, which slammed into the plywood covering the broken window with such force that the panel cracked and planted splinters in his flesh.
Glen dropped to the ground. The thing’s hands were off him for just a couple seconds as it drew back. Then it charged again, fanged teeth gleaming in the patchwork light beneath the overhang.
It was almost on top of him when Glen realized he was still holding the pistol. Pain dug a trench from his wrist to his shoulder as he jacked his aching elbow into position and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked in his hand. The thing screamed and fell back. Blood splattered across the flagstone, and a wet hunk of meat smacked against the ground. Glen fired again—straight at the thing’s chest this time—and fired once more as the monster stumbled back.
The 230-grain hollow-points did their work. Another slug drove the shadow-thing backward. It crashed against one of the patio posts—the overhang shuddering as the creature bucked in pain, its blood showering flagstones in wet droplets.
Glen fired again, and the monster howled.
Dead rose petals rained down.
And the shadow charged through them with renewed ferocity. Glen raised the pistol one more time, but it was too late. Before he could pull the trigger, the creature’s bristling forehead cracked hard against Glen’s chin. Simultaneously, a knotted shoulder drove into his gut, jamming him against the cracked plywood covering the broken window.
This time, the plywood didn’t hold.
This time, Glen went straight through it.
And the werewolf followed.
Kale sprang through the gaping plywood maw. There was the bastard. Right there—a hunk of human piledriver stretched out on the hardwood floor.
Somehow Barlow had managed to hang on to his pistol. Kale slapped it away with a fistful of claws. Not that the gun did Barlow any good without silver bullets. Kale’s wounds were already scarring over. Lead slugs couldn’t do more than slow him down.
He grabbed Barlow’s collar, snarling at him. And the look on Glen’s face? Man . . . it was priceless, as if someone had just lit up his flat-earthed little world with a full bucket of hellfire.
If a wolf could have laughed, Kale would have done it. The scorpion fury trapped inside him demanded that Barlow die hard. It’d been too damn tough keeping the leash on during the year he’d lived with the bastard’s sister. Caging his anger when Barlow gave him static about never holding a job for long . . . or the way he’d dip into Kim’s wallet when he needed some cash . . . or a million other things. Sometimes he’d lose it, and Kim would pay the price. Sure. Had to be Kimmy who paid, because he’d kept Kim on a leash of her own.
And it was a short one. Kimmy’d had things he wanted. A damn fine little house in the middle of nowhere, and money in the bank, and not too many relatives around to muddy the water. So waiting had been the ticket. First for the marriage license . . . next for the will. And that meant that most of the time Kale bit back his anger, but sometimes he couldn’t help himself. He’d let loose . . . especially when it was getting close to the full moon and the scorpions started crawling up his spine.
And that wasn’t bad, really. Not all bad, anyway. The scorpions, the fights and the violence . . . they gave Kale an excuse to get the hell out of Dodge. Usually he’d head to Vegas. Enjoy a couple days on the Strip, then do a little cruising in the desert. Grab someone traveling alone, out where it didn’t matter. He had his way about it, he favored himself some dark-haired little piece of sweetmeat. Maybe one with a little something extra to go with the gristle. He’d catch one alone at a rest stop or a backwater motel—some p
lace like that. Have some fun with her, then chow down. Clean the bones and bury them. Strip her car and sell it to a chop shop while the best parts of the little skank were still warm in his belly, then head home with a fat bankroll in the pocket.
No sweat, Kimmy. I picked it up gambling. Now let me drive you over to Tucson and we’ll have dinner. Hey, we can even stay the night at that place you like. I want to make things up to you . . . and I’m really sorry about that fight we had, okay?
Uh-huh. That was the way it worked.
Sweet when he needed to be.
Not so sweet when he didn’t.
And right now, with Kim six feet under and most of her worldly possessions banked, Kale didn’t have a shot glass worth of sweet in him. Barlow started scrambling, one hand reaching for that pistol on the floor. Kale grabbed him before he could reach the useless weapon, slamming Glen into the wall hard enough so that the boy damn near punched an outline in the sheetrock.
The werewolf didn’t stop there. He piled into Glen before he could hit the ground, ramming him against the wall again . . . and again. Next he jammed a clawed hand under Barlow’s chin, and this time he did the job right—hammering Glen’s thick skull straight through the sheetrock.
A wrench of his wrist and he pulled Barlow out of the divot, twisting his neck into a patch of moonlight shining from the back window. Ruby beads rolled down Glen’s sweaty face. Yeah, Kale thought, twisting harder. Bring on the blood!
He picked up Barlow and heaved him against the far wall. Glen crashed into a clean square of moonlight, grunted, tried to move. But Kale was on him before the hardcase could even twitch an inch. This was it—the final bit of business before the deed got done. Because right now, all Barlow really knew was that some kind of monster was putting him through the spin cycle. For Kale, killing Kim’s brother would be useless unless the bastard realized the identity of the nightmare doing the deed.
The Best Paranormal Crime Stories Ever Told Page 28
