The Best Paranormal Crime Stories Ever Told

by Martin H. Greenberg

  But Kale had been something different. Glen knew that as he stared down at the corpse of the man he’d wanted to kill so badly, just as he knew that his rage was as dead as the cursed bastard who’d murdered his sister. Now it had been replaced by another fire, a hunk of brimstone buried inside him that was torched by the light of the full moon.

  Glen wasn’t the kind of man who prayed, but he hoped he wouldn’t feel that fire when he watched the sun rise in just a few hours.

  If he watched the sun rise.

  If he stuck around long enough to do that.

  Glen’s grip tightened around the .45. He knew what the silver bullets in the gun could do to him, the same way he knew what the moon above would do to him the next time it rose in the night sky, full and bright.

  Just one bullet. That’s all it would take.

  Just one, and he’d never end up like Kale Howard.

  Glen raised the pistol. He placed the barrel beneath his chin.

  And he waited. He waited for a sign . . . a sign from somewhere . . . or someone . . . perhaps a sign from Kim. Right or wrong, the things he’d done tonight he’d done for her. So he waited for an acknowledgment, a rush of images his brain could catalog the way it had cataloged every movement and expression of the people he’d just killed.

  The ivory pistol grips were slick with his sweat. The gun barrel dug into the taut flesh beneath his chin. That brimstone fire inside him was cooking his heart now. Suddenly Glen heard words, down there in the sizzle.

  But they weren’t Kim’s words.

  They belonged to another, and he’d heard them earlier this night.

  What you do is who you are . . .

  The words were lost for a moment, sizzling in the brimstone roar. It was as if something inside Glen wanted to incinerate them, the same way he’d burned down the woman who’d spoken those words. But they came around again, surer this time . . . as if they were his own.

  What you do is who you are . . .

  Glen lowered the pistol.

  . . . and what you don’t do, too.

  The sound of his cell phone brought Bryce around. It was still dark—a glance at his watch told him it was just past midnight.

  Damn. His skull was pounding in time with the phone’s insistent ringtone. J. J. reached for his cell, but it wasn’t there. It was over on the patio, murky LCD light glowing as it chirped like a confused little bird. And there was his pistol, right next to it, and—

  That thing he’d wrestled lay on the patio, too. Only it didn’t look like a wolf anymore. Now the damn thing looked like Kale Howard. And now J. J. remembered. He’d cracked his head on the patio when he’d taken that fall. In the moment before he’d passed out, Glen Barlow had appeared in the doorway with a nickel-plated .45 in his hand. He’d looked like a refugee from a zombie movie, but he’d gunned down the monster beneath the patio overhang.

  And now Kale Howard lay dead in its place.

  Bryce stared at Howard’s corpse for a long moment.

  Goddamn, he thought. Well . . . goddamn.

  Because there wasn’t much else you could think. Not if you could add two and two. And even with a knock on the head, J. J. could do that. He moved on to the next order of business and tried to rise, but his legs wouldn’t quite make the trip. And the rest of his body . . . Jesus. It felt like his right arm wasn’t even there.

  What the hell was going on? He was ass-down in the dirt, leaning against something hard. He couldn’t move his right arm at all. Damn thing was asleep, bent above his head, stuck there as if tied.

  Bryce leaned to the side and looked up. He was handcuffed to the driver’s door of a truck. Not his own truck—Barlow’s piece-of-shit rustbucket . . . which hadn’t even been there when J. J. pulled in a couple hours ago.

  Oh shit. With his free hand, Bryce patted his pocket. His keys were gone.

  His brand-new Ford was gone, too.

  That son of a bitch, Bryce thought. He settled back against Barlow’s truck, and he stewed about it. Might be he’d have to sit here a while before someone came along. But that was okay. He was in no rush to discuss his stolen vehicle . . . or tonight’s business.

  Still, the wheels started turning in his head. Maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. Sooner or later, he’d have to decide what the hell he was going to say.

  To Sheriff Randall.

  And to Lisa, too.

  PART FOUR

  In the months since he’d left El Pasito, Glen had a lot of time on his hands. That was good. There was a lot he needed to think about in the wake of the bloodbath out there in the desert. Things had changed for him . . . a lot of things. Everything.

  But as the days closed into night, what he thought about most was Kim. He’d always felt responsible for her. After all, he was her big brother. That reaction was as natural as breathing. But he was starting to understand that Kim had made her own decisions in life, and he wasn’t responsible for them any more than he was responsible for the trouble they’d brought her way. They were Kim’s choices, not his. And she’d shut him out when making them, and she’d shut him out when they went bad . . . especially when it came to Kale.

  And maybe that was part of the reason for his anger. She’d shut him out, and then she was dead before either of them could change the way things were. Maybe that was the reason he hadn’t heard his sister’s voice in the desert on the night he’d nearly taken his own life.

  Maybe he hadn’t know her well enough to ask for that kind of help.

  Maybe she was still shutting him out.

  They were brother and sister, sure. They’d shared memory, time, and blood. But Glen had never known the secrets Kim kept locked up in her heart. And he wondered if you ever could know that about someone else, no matter what ties you shared.

  Just lately, he’d been thinking about that a lot. He hadn’t reached any particular conclusions, but there was one thing he was sure of. In the time since he’d left El Pasito, he was beginning to understand his own secrets, and he was beginning to understand his own heart.

  He wondered if someone else was beginning to understand those things, too.

  It wasn’t easy to find a pay phone anymore, but Glen turned one up.

  He had to buy a phone card from a little Cajun girl working the till in the convenience store before he could make his call. The phone was on a pole across from the gas pumps. There weren’t a lot of people around, just a lot of kudzu. And that was okay with Glen. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to share with anyone.

  He dialed Lisa’s number.

  A man picked up on the third ring. “Hello?”

  Glen didn’t say a word.

  “Hello?” the man said again. “Hey . . . is anyone there?”

  A click on the line, and the familiar voice was gone. Glen hung up the receiver.

  Well I’ll be damned, he thought, that voice still there in his head. J. J. Bryce and Lisa Allen.

  He stood there a minute, thinking about it. A truck roared by on the two-lane highway, heading toward Baton Rouge. Glen shook his head, grinning. A lot had surprised him just lately, and he couldn’t see a single reason why this should be any different.

  But, right now, that was okay with him.

  Really, it was.

  Man, if there was one thing J. J. hated, it was hang ups.

  He turned away from the phone. At least it hadn’t been another lawyer calling. Since the gunfight at the Barlow Corral, he’d had enough of lawyers. And administrative leave. And state and county investigators.

  And the questions some of those guys asked. Especially that forensic specialist who’d discovered that the Howard clan had been gunned down with silver bullets. He’d asked if J. J. had any ideas about those. “Hell,” J. J. had said. “Maybe Barlow thought he was the Lone Ranger. The guy was definitely crazy enough.”

  As it stood, investigators had connected the Howards to six murders in four states. Three of the victims had been married to Kale. Seemed he’d do the killing, and then his sist
er would come in a few months later and cash in the chips. She’d been smart enough to keep a low profile, mostly, and that had definitely been her MO in El Pasito. No one in town had even know that Kale had a sister—or a couple of brothers—out there at the house. Hell, that was probably why they kept the front window boarded up.

  Anyway, J. J. was glad the deal was wrapping up. Next week he was going back to work. A couple months after that . . . well, the whole thing would probably be forgotten.

  One could hope, anyway.

  Lisa was sweeping the patio when J. J. stepped through the door. He was carrying a couple bottles of Pacifico, and he handed her one. She took a sip, and that was an improvement. The beer was good and cold.

  “Who was on the phone?” she asked.

  “Hang up. Don’t you hate those?”

  She nodded. They sat on the back step for awhile. J. J. drank his beer and talked about going back to the cop shop. She listened. After awhile, he said, “I think I’ll drive over to Dos Gatos. Get some of those pork carnitas. We can have a barbeque tonight.”

  “Sounds good.”

  A few minutes later, he was gone.

  Lisa sat there on the step, staring at Tres Manos in the distance. Afternoon clouds drifted in from the east, casting shadows over The Hands. Lisa sipped her beer and watched the clouds hang there. They hung a good long while, until the wind chased them off.

  Lisa finished her beer, then got her clippers from the tool shed.

  She worked in the herb garden.

  She trimmed back the rosemary.

  She trimmed it tight.

  Ninja Rats on Harleys

  ELIZABETH A. VAUGHAN

  It was a dark and stormy night.

  Well it was, damn it. The cold air slapped me in the face as the glass doors of the ER waiting area slid open. Any warmth my tattered bathrobe held was gone in an instant as the wind wrapped around me. The rain had stopped for now, but the entire parking lot gleamed under the lights, as did the ambulances, their flashing lights reflecting off the puddles and my van.

  My bloodstained slippers were soaked as I slapped across the parking lot. I cradled my purse and those damned discharge instructions as I fumbled for my keys. I opened the passenger side door, set the purse carefully on the seat, and then slammed that sucker shut with all my strength.

  I was pissed, and who could blame me?

  Nothing like being attacked in your own home by a hideous, stinky white possum and his ninja hench-rats at an ungodly hour of the morning. We’d fought them off, Wan and I, with naught but our bare hands and a bottle of toilet cleaner.

  Well, okay, Wan had a sword. And he killed most of them. But I’d done my fair share, although it was my own blood on my slippers.

  Wan is a mouse. An ancient Chinese mouse, as far as I can figure. He hasn’t been very forthcoming. He’s been good company since he moved in about a month ago. He was teaching me tai chi and I was teaching him football. I had to admit, it was nice to have someone around . . . to have company. And yes, my social life does suck that bad.

  He talks. Did I mention that?

  At any rate, a few hours ago, we’d been attacked by people . . . animals . . . who also talked and who clearly knew more about Wan than I did. One of the rats had bitten through my finger, hence the visit to the ER.

  Slamming the door had not been the best idea, since Itty and Bitty, my poor little white dogs, had been cowering under the seats in the back. They scrabbled up, put their feet on the window and howled for attention.

  My cowardly fat white Westies, who tend to fart when under stress. I opened the rear passenger door and petted and cooed over them for a minute, paying attention to the slash on Itty’s nose. The possum had gotten her at one point in the fight, but it was only a slight scratch. I got them calmed back down, shut the door, and headed around to mine.

  Wan was standing on my purse when I heaved my weary body into the driver’s seat. He stood at the summit, his sword over his back, his arms crossed over his chest. “We should stay and talk with the learned doctor, Kate.”

  The doctor also seemed to know more about what was going on than I did. I sighed, looking at the ambulances. “Wan, he’s going to be busy for quite some time. I want to go home and take a shower.”

  “He possesses knowledge that we do not have,” Wan argued. “Why do we leave a potential ally behind us?”

  “Because my hand hurts,” I snapped. “Because I’m filthy, and tired, and the dogs are scared.” I struggled with my seat belt using my bandaged hand. “Because that nurse said that the Doctor would be working on those accident victims for hours. Because I’m not drinking that hideous coffee, and because . . . ” I snapped the belt in place and turned to glare at Mr.-Holier-Than-Thou-Talking-Mouse. “Because I don’t know who is friend or foe until you tell me what the hell is going on!”

  Wan glared right back and I promised myself that if he told me to be one with my pain I was going to pitch him right out the window and drive off.

  The damn mouse looked away. “You hold the keys, Honorable Lady.”

  I jammed them in the ignition and started the van.

  What a surprise. There isn’t a lot of traffic on the expressway at four in the morning on a Saturday.

  Who’da thunk it?

  I pulled out of the hospital grounds, and headed up Monroe Street toward Douglas. I’d take the expressway home. Wan sat silent, which was fine with me. I needed to think.

  It had taken me aback when the ER Doctor told me he knew my injury was from a ninja rat bite. Believe me when I say that I hadn’t put that down on any forms. He’d taken pains to make sure the nurse didn’t hear him, too, come to think of it. I narrowed my eyes as I pulled onto Douglas. His steel gray eyes had been sharp, sharp enough that he had probably known about Wan hiding in my purse.

  But did that mean that I could trust him?

  I turned onto the entrance ramp to the expressway, chewing my lower lip. Well hell, I was trusting a talking mouse, now wasn’t I? And I hadn’t exactly asked him for ID, now had I?

  My front window was fogging up, so I reached for the blower dial. Cold air flowed over my feet before I could get it set on defrost. We’d almost be home before it warmed up. I shivered and set the cruise control at sixty-two. The last thing I needed was a ticket.

  My hand throbbed as I tilted the rearview mirror to look at the dogs. They were sound asleep on the backseat, exhausted, poor babies. I adjusted the mirror back with a wince. There were lights in the distance behind us. Far enough back not to worry about just yet.

  I pulled my injured hand back and rested it on my chest, steering with my left hand.

  “We should not return to the house,” Wan stated firmly. “They will be waiting for us.”

  I sighed. He had a point, but I didn’t really want to hear it. “All right. I’m too tired to argue. A hotel then, but we will have to smuggle in the dogs.” I sighed, and checked the rearview mirror. If a hotel would let us in. I looked like hell. The lights behind us were getting closer. They were coming fast. Looked like motorcycles out for an evening cruise.

  “Perhaps we could shelter in the home of a friend?” Wan asked carefully.

  I stiffened. This was a sore point, and he damn well knew it. When I’d given up on my dreams, my fantasy writing, I’d walked away from friends who shared those dreams. Gamers, writers, dreamers and geeks, I’d cut them out of my life. “Oh sure,” I snapped. “I’ll just show up with bloody slippers, dogs, a talking mouse and they’ll be glad to—”

  The rumble of a gunned Harley cut me off. I glanced at the rearview mirror. The motorcycles had caught up with us, about twelve from the looks of things. They’d surround us, then pass as they—

  Movement caused me to glance out my side window. A big Harley, a Fat Boy, had pulled up even with the van. I glanced at the tank first, seeing the logo then noticed the rider’s leg looked . . . odd. I looked up and gasped.

  “KATE!” Wan shouted beside me.

  Th
e rider was a rat, a giant rat, riding a Harley, and glaring at me through its ninja mask. With a big white ugly possum perched on its shoulder. The possum caught my gaze and gave me an open-mouth hiss, waving its walking stick.

  I swerved wildly.

  The bikes all swerved with me, moving as if we’d rehearsed it. The rumble strip complained as my tires hit and I jerked the wheel back, frantic to stay on the road.

  The dogs started barking, not sure what was happening, but sure they could scare it away. The bike in front of me put on its brake light, and I hit the brake as well, instinctively.

  “No, Kate.” Wan urged. “Do not stop.”

  “But . . . ” I said.

  “It will put us at their mercy, of which there is little.” Wan’s voice cut like a knife. “Go!”

  Wan may be small, but that command made me jam my foot on the gas. The van leaped forward, and the biker swerved to the side, then gunned it to stay in front of me. The ninja rat driver turned his head to look at me, his eyes dark, beady, and vicious.

  I swallowed hard. “How did they get so big?” I asked in a whisper.

  “Magic,” Wan said.

  Duh. I risked a quick glare in his direction but the little snit was back down on the seat, digging in my purse, pulling out my cell phone and the Doctor’s card. “Call 911,” I said.

  “And what do I say?” Wan asked as he opened the phone.

  He had a point. I gripped the steering wheel with two hands, and focused on the road. The bikes kept weaving around me, trying to drive me off the road but I hung on grimly.

  Then that one in front apparently decided to clip me and I saw my chance. Big mistake on his part. No amount of magic was going to stop me. He swerved in front, and I gunned the van.

  She did me proud, surging forward just enough to clip his rear fender. The rat wiped out, barely avoiding my front tire as he and his bike hit the pavement and slid off. Metal screamed and sparks flew as the bike and the rat slid away.