Texas Strange

by West, Terry M.

  Lubin had to call Lucas’ name twice before tearing him away from his thoughts.

  “Excuse me?” Lucas replied.

  “I was wondering if you could tell us about your experience, yesterday,” Lubin said.

  “It was a very vague image. I only glimpsed the killer’s pant leg and boot,” Lucas confessed.

  “Did you see any type of labels on the clothing or boots?” Agent Lane inquired.

  “No,” Lucas said.

  “Did you hear his voice?” Lubin asked next.

  Everyone’s attention was focused on Lucas.

  “Well," Lucas began, deciding that he didn’t feel up to explaining that he had witnessed the murder through a dog’s eyes. “The killer kicked Tonya’s dog, and he said, ‘keep back, dog’.”

  “Could you describe his voice?” Lubin asked.

  “Deep. Huh…just…deep.”

  “Any accent?” Lane asked.

  Lucas felt a stronger wave of pain surge through his temple. He felt put on the spot, and he was beginning to understand the exasperation that radiated from the assembled specialists. It was damn frustrating.

  “The killer only uttered three words, I really couldn't-”

  Lucas paused, recalling something else about the previous night.

  “What’s the matter, sport?” Harlson asked.

  “There was a full moon last night,” Lucas muttered.

  When the conference room door burst open, Lucas knew what the frantic officer at the threshold was going to say before she opened her mouth.

  “Detective Harlson! The Highway patrol just contacted us. They’ve found two more bodies.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “Donnez-moi un peu de poulet gras pour faire un gumbo gras amende,” Dreg sang cheerily, stepping out of his weathered cabin and into the bright, warm summer day.

  He clutched a rusted metal bucket filled with raw leftovers. He had hunted beyond his needs, which was not the way of the wolf. But the hunt consumed his life, so he spared his conscience by leaving mounds of wet tidbits for the wildlife in the thick woods that camouflaged his den from the prying eyes of authority.

  Dreg has discovered this place several seasons ago, on his second trip to Texas.

  It was a modest, wooden home with a tool shed outside that contained a small generator that Dreg maintained whenever he returned to this particular den.

  He had found the place on a hike through the forest. The tenant before Dreg had been an old woman who had lived there alone. Dreg found nothing that tied the woman to a family. No pictures or letters. She took whatever her reason for her isolation to the grave Dreg had dug for her.

  He had not killed her, though he would have to secure such a perfect lair. Dreg had found her corpse sat on a rocker on the spacious front porch. Morsels had been taken out of her flesh by small scavengers.

  The den had little furniture, but he didn't lounge there that often and he never entertained. The few personal items that the old woman had possessed meant nothing to Dreg. He had burned them all at night when the smoke wouldn't be as noticeable in the dark sky.

  Dreg maintained the place the best he could, but he only stayed there for two months a year, at the most. There were repairs to be made every time he returned to this cabin.

  The den provided only one modern convenience, which was the reason Dreg kept the generator running to maintain a small amount of energy to the house. It had a huge, flat freezer in the kitchen, which the old woman had stocked with venison.

  But now Dreg kept his own brand of meat preserved in the ice box. He always cleaned it out before leaving it for the season. And when he returned to this area, he would always rinse it and let it run for a few days before filling it again.

  He walked out into the unruly weeds that he would soon have to take a sickle to.

  Near his den, dozens of cars were parked under the sun. The cars parked on the fringe of the open field, before the forest became a thick wall, were weather-beaten, rusty, covered with weeds that had grown grips around fenders and bumpers. Some of the vehicles had plant life sprouting out of open windows.

  The cars parked closer to his den were newer and not yet devoured by the foliage or dulled by the elements.

  Dreg walked past the empty shells, wondering what he was going to do once the field was full of autos. He would either stop bringing them back altogether or he would hunt closer to his den so he would not have such a great distance to haul his meat.

  There was also the possibility of felling a few trees to widen the space, but Dreg was rather fond of the old pines that surrounded his den. He put the problem aside, deciding to mull it over when it became an issue he could longer ignore.

  Dreg heard a noise. The crack of a brittle branch. The shifting of tall grass. He looked into the forest and saw the head of a muddy German Shepherd. He smiled at the company, which was most likely waiting for the moist prize Dreg was toting. A pack of wild dogs had a den nearby Dreg’s. He counted maybe eight different members of the pack at different times. He was unclear as to who ran the pack, but he had narrowed down the possibilities to the shepherd he was facing now and a Rottweiler he had encountered before.

  The dogs were fierce, untamed animals that had most likely been shoved out of cars on Interstate 45. The animals did not take to Dreg, but he was a reliable source of food, so one or two of them would come at a time every day or so to see what he had to offer.

  Dreg approached the dog, which was rooted to its spot beneath the shade.

  “So, are you le chien de garde?” Dreg asked.

  The dog bared its teeth as if it understood the man.

  “Ah,” Dreg corrected himself, “le chien de chasse, eh?” Sporting dog. Proud hunter.

  Dreg growled back at the dog. It promptly inched its way backwards into the cool shade, its hunger keeping it from fleeing altogether.

  “Here,” Dreg said, unloading the bucket in the direction of the dog. “Fill yo’ belly, dog.”

  The dog cautiously approached the contents of the bucket, sniffing uneasily in Dreg’s direction. Dreg lost interest in the dog. He turned back in the direction of his den.

  Something was troubling him. It stemmed from his actions with the female who had been his most recent kill . He had thought himself past the point of taking a mate, but the void was bothering him even more than it did when he was a young wolf.

  He would occasionally release his urgings on random prostitutes in New Orleans, but the loneliness on the road was really getting to him. He needed a louve- a she-wolf, an angel maker- to bear his cubs.

  He wanted a pack to lead. His duty as traiteur demanded that he pass the secret knowledge to his offspring, if they had left-handedness, and a big litter would surely yield at least one special cub. And though the men in his line could live a very long time (Papere was damned near one hundred when Mama put a shell in his brain), Dreg realized that he might only have enough vigor left in him to see one or two cubs, and that was if he found a mate very soon. It was an acorn he wanted to see planted before his vitality withered away completely. He was still strong and his mind was still clear. But he could lose it at any time. He was fortunate that he still had a great deal of strength inside, as Le Loup had obviously seen fit to keep him empowered.

  But still, the hardest part of it was not his growing gray. Where would he ever find his louve? His old pack was either dead or living the life of men. Never mind that they had killed his Papere and cast Dreg out.

  He was surely the loneliest wolf. He wasn't fit company for humans or his four-legged brothers. It was always hard for him to be around people. People. Thinking themselves so smart and in charge of everything on the earth, and yet they were the easiest game for him to hunt.

  And the meat... yes, sur! Human meat was tastier than any other domestic or wild game he could think of. Humans made the best roux, gumbo and jambalaya he had ever tasted.

  His mouth began to water and his stomach grumbled.

  Dreg sighed at his lo
t, and then he trudged toward his den and breakfast.

  CHAPTER 20

  Lorrie floated away from a pleasant dream and she woke up in Shaw’s bed.

  She stretched her arms above her head, her bare, pert breasts shifting upwards, and gazed to Shaw’s side of the bed.

  Empty.

  She wiped sleep from the corners of her eyes and tried to recall the dream she had been having before waking without a warning. She could not call it to mind. She never could. But she felt in a reasonably mellow mood, meaning she had realized some desire in the safe confines of her skull the night before.

  Lorrie tossed the comforter off of her small frame and was immediately struck by the aroma of sex. It was a pleasant scent, and she savored it, arching her back in a lazy cat stretch and running her fingers through her hair, grimacing when she hit a huge tangle at the back of her neck.

  She spotted her pink, cotton panties on the night stand and she retrieved them with an index finger. She slipped them on, raising her legs until she faced her feet, sliding the panties over the stubble on her legs, then raising her haunches to pull them over her hips.

  She slumped back down, arms behind her head, staring at the ceiling. She noticed the stench of pot. It wasn’t the usual scent- a lingering residue with a smack of air freshener spray to cover it. It was fresh.

  Shaw was already hitting the bong!

  Lorrie sighed. What was she going to do with Shaw? He was such a pot head.

  Shaw was great for kicks, but Lorrie knew he would never make a good husband or father. She supposed that was why she loved him so much now and she held to him so dearly.

  One day she would grow up and leave Shaw behind with the other mistakes of youth. She was in the process of selecting a university and she had not yet confronted Shaw with the possibility of attending a school in another state.

  The way she saw things, this might be her last summer with him. That’s why she had decided to go along with this pilgrimage thing he had his heart set on. Maybe Shaw also suspected that this summer would be their last hurrah.

  Lorrie’s mother, Eileen, worked double shifts at an electronics plant where she soldered components together, so she wouldn’t have the energy to check Lorrie’s alibi during the trip. Lorrie would tell her mother that she was going camping with several girlfriends up at Possum Kingdom, a park near Tyler.

  She suspected that if she had told her mother the truth, Eileen still may have only offered an indifferent reply to the situation. It was the possibility of her mother not really caring where her daughter went or with whom that caused Lorrie to lie. A reprimand was something she would crave, not fear.

  Lorrie’s father had run out on his wife and daughter years ago, sucking their savings account clean. He had left no explanation for his departure. Just up and went. Took the money and ran. No good-byes or even a fuck you.

  Lorrie’s mother changed after that. Eileen Macroon became numb and oblivious to everything. Sure, Eileen put food on the table and she paid the bills, but Mommy left with Daddy and Lorrie was pretty fucking sick of living with a robot that acknowledged her existence only when there was a chore to be done or when a desired possession was missing.

  Mother worked, came home, cooked, stared at the television for a few hours, then either headed back to work or slept. There were no more mother and daughter conversations. Eileen had withdrawn into herself so completely that Lorrie wondered if she would even be missed during the pilgrimage.

  Her thoughts were interrupted when Shaw bounced back into the room, dressed only in underwear. He held a bag of potato chips and he was shoving the shavings from the bottom of the flat bag into his mouth.

  “Up and at ‘em, sleepyhead. It’s almost ten,” Shaw said, perching on the end of the bed.

  “Is your father around?” Lorrie asked, modestly shrugging the comforter back on at the sight of the open bedroom door.

  “Nah. He’s got some moving and shaking to do today. A high school is thinking about buying some of his clunkers for driver’s education. He’s probably wining and dining some principal downtown,” Shaw replied, crumpling the bag into a ball and tossing it toward an already full wastebasket near the door.

  “What about your mother?” Lorrie asked.

  “Stress management class,” Shaw said with a salty grin as he sat on the edge of the bed. “We’ve got the place to ourselves.”

  Lorrie tossed the covers from her body once more. Shaw’s house had central air, but the extreme heat was still making his room uncomfortable because of the bright sun shining through the huge, bedroom window.

  Shaw crawled toward Lorrie. “You want to take a shower with me?”

  The mere thought was giving Shaw an erection. Lorrie felt it pressed against her knee.

  She had never showered with anyone before, but she was rather turned on by the idea. Besides, this was her special summer with Shaw.

  “Okay,” Lorrie replied, running her fingers through Shaw’s unruly hair. “But only if you’re sure your parents won’t come back anytime soon.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Harlson led the convoy of unmarked FBI vehicles and police cruisers down Interstate 45. Lucas rode with Harlson in a white, Ford LTD. Harlson had his brights on and a blue light mounted to his dashboard.

  The police radio was ablaze with reports from the murder site and traffic patrols trying to clear the clogged Interstate. Curious motorists stared stupidly at the passing procession.

  “Fucking traffic is slowing us,” Harlson said to Lucas.

  Luke nodded, and then he decided to try to talk to Harlson. “Could you turn the band down?” Luke asked, motioning to the radio.

  Harlson complied. “What’s on your mind, sport?”

  Luke took a deep breath. He wondered if he was doing the right thing. “I had a dream last night. I know you’re somewhat of a skeptic, but I really want to tell you about it. I criticized you yesterday for not being straight with me. It wouldn’t be right if this dream I had could help the case.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this as the conference?” Harlson asked.

  “I wasn’t sure if it was all that valuable, and I didn’t want to look foolish. Not in front of the FBI,” Luke admitted. “Besides, you’re my partner on this. My first loyalty is to you.”

  Harlson smiled. “Well, thanks. I appreciate that. Tell me all about it.”

  “I was in a restaurant. I talked with a dead policeman who was sitting at my table. He warned me to stay off of Interstate 45. He was in gruesome shape- mutilated beyond belief. Now, here’s the really weird part of the dream. The part that I can’t fathom at all. I saw a freakish looking baby in an aquarium. It had cat eyes. It said some cryptic stuff. After that, a waiter brought me a silver tray. Tonya Lawley’s head was on it. And the weirdest part of it was that the waiter had the head of a wolf. He even said, ‘I’m the wolf’.”

  Harlson digested all of the information, and then he pitched his cigarette out of the window. “You want to know what I think, Lucas?”

  “What?”

  “Now, don’t get offended. Just consider what I’m going to say to you. All of those images were bits and pieces I fed to your subconscious yesterday. The missing patrolman. Bertha Hobbs’ vision. Tonya’s head on a silver platter in a restaurant could be symbolic of cannibalism. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

  Luke started to fume, but he caught himself, recognizing an element Harlson hadn’t mentioned. “What about the cat-eyed baby in the aquarium?”

  “You must have thrown some of your own garbage in there. It was your dream.”

  Luke thought a moment. He and Tammy were unsuccessfully trying to have a baby. And what about Cottontail the topless dancer's cameo? Luke had been thinking about her right before he fell asleep. He groaned inwardly. Harlson was looking at this as a detective, not a skeptic.

  “You know,” Luke said, trying to salve his dignity somewhat, “you’re absolutely right. I’ve never had precognitive dreams on that scale be
fore. I think that’s the biggest reason I kept it to myself back there. When you have an ability like mine, it can be hard to sort through your impressions and dreams. Figure out what's meaningful and what's nonsense. And you never want to look like an asshole.”

  “Well, still, I’m flattered you shared it with me.”

  Harlson turned the band back up and lit another cigarette.

  Lucas took a good look at Harlson. He didn’t have to be psychic to see that the man wasn’t in the best of health. Luke could feel Harlson’s pain and turmoil.

  Shit, he thought. His power sickened him sometimes. He had no right knowing about the cancer. Luke suddenly wanted to take an ice pick to his third eye.

  The whole scene was sadly hilarious to him. Two men with one foot already in the grave rushing after a killer. What a pair we must make. Luke wanted to say something to Harlson. Say he was sorry, at least. Ask if he could help in any way.

  Nothing came from him.

  Harlson regarded him. He must have noticed Luke's grim attention.

  “You okay, sport?” Harlson asked.

  “I’m fine,” Luke lied, wondering what the normal people were doing for fun this summer.

  ***

  Thomas Lubin followed Harlson’s car in the convoy. He turned to Sally Lane, who sat in the passenger’s seat.

  “Let’s hear your plan, Sally,” Thomas said.

  “Excuse me?” Sally asked, pulled from deep concentration.

  “I know that look. You’ve got an angle on this and I want to hear it, please,” Thomas replied.

  “I was reading previous reports on this case. We’ve had some nasty blow backs over our undercover procedure on this. We’ve set out decoys before with manpower spread all over forty-five. I think we need to reduce to a tactical squad. No more than two cars- a decoy and back-up maintaining a safe distance. If we deploy everybody with jurisdiction on this our boy will never come out. He probably has some vantage point over the Interstate, and an army of vehicles, marked or unmarked, will scare him away.”