Bitten

by K. L. Nappier

  Samuel worked alone, saying he preferred things that way. He insisted that spreading the hunters over three locations, rather than two, made the most sense. "And, anyway, one squat little colored man working in Mexico," he'd quipped, "isn't near as noticeable as he is in the states, living with a tall, lanky white man, let alone a red stocky one." He had taken up the hunt on his own as soon as the three of them had agreed he was ready, and had settled where his last hunt had led: south of the border.

  But, it'd be good to pair him with someone if they ever got the chance. Max couldn't imagine the trial of living this life alone. He and David -and from almost the beginning, David's cousin Mina, their "administratrix"- were a team.

  From the corner of his eye, Max saw Mina slow the film reader and peer more intensely at the screen.

  "Look," she said.

  Max moved to read over her shoulder.

  "Got to go," David said into the microphone, "Mina may have caught something."

  "Sure. Give her our love. Let us know what you find ..."

  David signed off, came to Max's side and began reading along with him.

  "This is page A-9 of the St. Louis Globe Democrat ," Mina said. She pointed out the column:

  Grisly Deaths Confirmed As Animal Attacks

  Though still unresolved, human foul play has been ruled out in the deaths of a Branson man and a Hollister teen-aged girl. Authorities remain convinced the attacks were by a single animal, but are not ruling out multiple animals. Evidence points to a wolf or wolves of unusual size, most likely male. A series of hunts continue. It is believed the animal was raised illegally and may have escaped from its owner or was released into the wild. Wolves have not lived in the wild in Missouri for over a century. No evidence of rabies has been found.

  People in Taney County should exercise caution, particularly at night and in rural or isolated areas. Those with information regarding large undomesticated or exotic animals kept as pets, or who may have information regarding the attacks, are urged to contact law enforcement or local animal control officials.

  "What's the newspaper's date?" Max asked.

  Mina scrolled back up to the top. "The tenth."

  More to himself than to David or Mina, Max said, "Not much detail. No recap, no dates on the attacks ..."

  "Which means this is just an update on old news reported some time ago," Mina replied.

  And that meant there could be more deaths that hadn't been connected to the two in the article. "Is this the most recent microfilm you have?" David asked.

  Mina nodded. "Came in the mail two days ago. I'll go back through the older films."

  It was doubtful she'd find anything. Mina was a meticulous researcher. Something as obvious as this would have jumped out at her, especially in the regular news. The pulp tabloids with their two-headed Moonmen babies and stories of Chupacabra the Goat Sucker were usually better leads than legitimate newspapers. This was a real find.

  More likely, the spool that had contained the original column had never made it to her. After all, theirs was not an exact science. There was no Academy of Lycanthropy with archives and updates at their beck and call. Sure, they had improved as hunters over the years, and having a handful of others join the hunt was a coup. But their work, even in these boom times of technology and progress, was still hit-and-miss.

  David sighed. "I'd hoped to check on the shops during the down time."

  Mina, rewinding the spool, replied, "I'll take care of it."

  David nodded, watching the screen as the spool spun hypnotically backward. His arms were crossed thoughtfully. "Will this be close to your hometown?" he asked Max.

  Max shook his head. "I grew up a nice midtown boy in Florissant just outside St. Louis. Branson's in the middle of nowhere, a popular stop-over for campers. Neither of my parents were much for the great outdoors. Other than knowing it's a full day's drive south, I couldn't tell you where the hell Taney County is, let alone Branson or Hollister."

  The men stood silently then, neither wanting to say it aloud. Shit , Max thought, we just got back. They watched Mina box up the spool and take it to the file cabinet.

  Max took a final gulp of coffee, and then set the cup on the table. "Okay. Well. We're the closest ones to the site. Better get packing."

  He turned to leave for his bedroom, but Mina called, "Hey! Cup. Kitchen."

  Chapter Five

  Branson, Missouri

  Early Spring, 1950

  Midday. New Moon.

  Max hadn't been back to his home state since his parents' deaths, both within a few years after he had enlisted in the Army. But he sure remembered this kind of Midwestern spring. The kind where winter was leaving under protest, dragging its cold, drizzly heels. Tomorrow the sky might burst out sunny and blue and the temperature become a mild seventy-two. But not today.

  Branson was a small town growing into a scenic get-away spot. On its main street, Max and David parked the rental car they'd picked up in Springfield and ducked under the protection of an overhang in front of Lewis' Restaurant . Max pulled opened the door, and the cozy smell of small town coffee and deep fat fryers met his nose and warmed his lungs. The lunch crowd had a local look to them, glancing up a moment, and then going back to their meals.

  To their left was a Formica lunch counter with a few metal swivel stools available. But Max and David went for the bank of high-backed, wooden booths to their right as a couple finished and got up with their check. They pulled off their fedoras and heavy jackets, beaded with drizzle, hung them on the coat hooks screwed to the ends of the high-backs and settled in.

  When the waitress approached, she couldn't keep from staring at David, but he had long gotten used to that reaction. After a moment she collected herself, picked up her forty cents, piled the dirty plates and glasses together at the end of the booth and said cheerily, "How you two doin'?"

  "Good, thanks," Max replied. He and David grabbed the paper menus held against the napkin holder by the ketchup bottle.

  "You want coffee?"

  "Please."

  She pulled a pencil and check pad from her apron pocket. "Need cream?"

  "Nah."

  "You a couple of our early ones?" She kept glancing at David.

  David finally showed her some mercy. "Early what?"

  "Well, you know ... visitors. Tourists. Sure am sorry about the weather for you. Summer's gonna be slow in coming this year. It's been cold and icy most of Spring."

  She seemed more eager to chat than take their order, which was fine with Max and David. They were long past the need to give each other knowing glances when an opportunity was sensed. Max made his selection and looked up at the waitress pleasantly.

  "I'm ready when you are."

  "Sure ..." she poised her pencil.

  "I'll do the burger platter. Onion rings 'stead of fries," he said, letting himself slide into his old Missouri mannerisms.

  "Everything on it?"

  "Sure. And a sody when it comes."

  " Sody ? You must be from north of here."

  "St. Louis, originally."

  "You want Pepsi, orange or white pop? Oh, I'm sorry," she added with a wink, "or white sody ?"

  Max and David laughed appreciatively. The waitress looked at David and smiled, scrunching her nose. "How 'bout you?"

  "I'll have the roast beef sandwich."

  "White or wheat?"

  "Wheat."

  "Toasted?"

  "Yes, thanks."

  "You just doin' coffee?"

  "Maybe a glass of water, too."

  "'Course, I know you're not from around here."

  David gave her his best you-pegged-me smile.

  "You're from out west, aren't you? Y'know ... you mind me sayin' this ...? It's not every day we get an actual Indian come through here. Ozarks used to be Indian country, though."

  "You don't say ..."

  "Sure was. The Osage."

  "I wouldn't have guessed."

  "You mind me askin' ...? W
hat kind are you?"

  "Seminole."

  "Don't know them."

  "They're mostly in Florida now."

  "Can't blame 'em. I'd move there myself if I could!" The waitress scrunched her nose again and gave David a demure little poke with her fingertips. She drew a deep breath that ended in a sigh. "Anyway ... let me get this to the kitchen. My name's Debbie. What's yours?"

  "Tim," said Max.

  "Sitting Bull," said David, which put Debbie into fits of laughter. Max and David smiled.

  "Let me say it is just an honor to meet you. Really," she said to David as soon as she caught her breath. "This is just a real thrill. You're good people, I can tell. Well ... like I said .. let me get your order to the kitchen."

  She collected the dirty dishes. David watched her walk down the line to the kitchen's window. She dumped the dishes in the busboy's tray, stuck the check on the order wheel and tapped the bell. While the cook spun the carousel around to read, Debbie whispered into the busboy's ear and gestured toward Max and David's booth.

  Max looked at David. "'Sitting Bull' ...?"

  David shrugged. "I'm sitting, aren't I? We just fed her load of B.S., didn't we?" He looked toward Debbie, again. "Chatty, isn't she?"

  "Lucky us," Max replied, and meant it.

  The busboy came by and wiped down the table, trying so hard to keep from staring at David that his chin mashed against his chest. There was a display case showing off homemade pies just across from the booth, and he made a point of wiping that down, too, so he could get a good look from a safe distance. As soon as Debbie came back with the food, the men went straight to work.

  "Thanks, Debbie," Max said. "Say ... y'know .. we're just passing through this time around, on business. But the area sure is pretty. Y'say you get a lot of tourists?"

  "Well, we're no Florida or anything," she replied, smiling mostly at David, "but, yeah, it's been buildin' up ever since the war. We got Marvel Cave and Lake Taneycomo. They're big attractions for folks from Springfield. Sometimes even St. Louis." She scrunched her nose at Max. "And they just started buildin' the dam. That oughta be done in a few years and we're all real excited about it. And a lot of people make it down in December for the Adoration Lighting. Got a Baby Jesus scene twenty-eight feet tall on Branson Mountain's bluff. It's really somethin' to see. 'Course, Fall's real busy here with people comin' for the colors. But mostly folks start headin' down a hair later than right now ... middle a' May, early June. This weather keeps up, though, it's gonna put everybody off."

  While David dug into his sandwich, Max dunked an onion ring in ketchup and said, "Well, it's real nice, the countryside. It sure looks unspoiled. Y'know, on our way here, somebody told us this area had wolves."

  Debbie's eyes went wide. "Oh, you heard about that? So you must've heard about the people it killed ..."

  Max looked amazed. "No!"

  Debbie rolled her eyes and laid a hand on her heart. "Oh, it was awful . But they don't really think there're any wolf packs around. They're pretty sure somebody was raisin' one that got loose."

  "That's terrible," David said. "Let's hope they catch it soon."

  "Oh, they did!"

  Max and David were stunned into silence. David was the first to recover. "They did?"

  "Well, they didn't catch it. They found its carcass. I can tell you we are all sleeping a lot better."

  They managed to keep their cool. Max asked, "When did this happen?"

  Debbie glanced up at the ceiling thoughtfully. "Couple days ago."

  "Where'd they find it?"

  "Back in the bluffs, but I'm not all that sure exactly where. I was just relieved to hear about it. Heard it on the radio comin' in to work that day."

  "Sounds as if they're certain they've found the right animal," David said.

  "Oh, yeah, it was huge. Huge! But they got it on ice so they can run some sort of tests, just in case. Make sure it's the same one that did the killin'."

  "Geez ..." Max bit into another onion ring before musing aloud, "Where around here would you keep a dead wolf for tests?"

  "The only place you could!" Debbie said, giving him a playful little poke. "Truman 'n' Sons."

  * * *

  "What I want to know is, after all these years, why can't there be some consistency, a little routine. Why does it always have to be so damn different every time?" Since that didn't get a rise out of David, Max leaned back in the passenger seat of the rental car and grumbled, "Another great moment in our history. Breaking into a funeral home."

  Truman and Sons' was a white two-story structure, its bulk and surrounding grounds taking up an entire block. The only way the antebellum mortuary could have looked gloomier than against gray skies and drizzle was to see it in the dead of night in that same drizzle. And that was how they were looking at it now. The jaundiced glow of Branson's meager street lights barely illuminated it.

  Earlier in the day, they'd eyed up the property. There was a chalk pebble driveway that led to a detached, three-car garage behind the mortuary. At the back of the funeral home, white wooden steps led to a door on the second story; the Truman family living area was Max's guess. A garage door was built into the back of the funeral home, and that would be where the remains of local loved ones -and one supposed wolf carcass- were taken.

  After their informative lunch with Debbie, Max and David had settled into the Branson library, reading back issues of the Springfield News-Leader . They found the information that had been absent from Mina's Globe-Democrat microfilm: all the details of the attacks' aftermath. One other person besides the Branson man and Hollister teen had gone missing and was presumed a victim: Lloyd Stonehill. Like the girl, he had been a Hollister resident. He had been a loner, new to the area, and raising cattle. He was considered a likely victim, since the remains of a slaughtered cow and her calf were found on his property by someone who'd noticed he hadn't come to town in a while. He wasn't declared legally dead yet, but officials weren't holding out much hope.

  There was also news of the experts invited down by the Taney County coroner: a respected veterinarian from Springfield and a zoologist from St. Louis. They were going to transport the carcass to Springfield tomorrow, so Max and David didn't have a minute to waste. That's why they were parked on the street about a half-block behind the mortuary, peering through the windshield and the night's cold drizzle.

  "Shit," Max said. "I hate this."

  David's only reply was a sigh. He opened the door and climbed from behind the steering wheel.

  "Yeah, well ... shit," Max said again and brought his watch close, squinting in the near dark. 1:43 a.m. He got out of the car.

  Hunched against the drizzle, they approached the first floor's back door, feeling exposed in black clothes against white sideboard. Max tried the door. It was latched. Through the years, he and David had discovered lock picking was a useful skill. He pulled out his picks as David kept watch, and they stepped through in a matter of seconds. David closed the door quietly. They stood motionless for a time, letting their eyes adjust, listening for any sounds that might warn they weren't alone.

  They were in the unloading area. To their left was the long, black silhouette of the funeral home's hearse. The air was cool and dry, with a slight trace of chemical tang. They stayed stock still, listening a little longer. The only sound was a barely discernible mechanical hum.

  Several paces ahead and to the right were two doorways, one double-doored and one single. Next to these was something that appeared to be a large, open room with an accordion gate stretched across the entry. David went to it, trying to keep his wet sneakers from squeaking against the painted concrete floor. Max followed.

  "It's an elevator platform," David whispered, looking in.

  Max stepped over to the single door and opened it cautiously. Through the gloom, he made out a sloped ceiling and white painted block walls enclosing the stairs. "The embalming room must be in the basement," he said, "and they use the elevator to move the bodies. The double-
doored entrance probably leads to the funeral home."

  He stepped through the doorway and ran his hand along either wall. To one side, a lead pipe banister descended into blackness. Against the other wall, a switch -round and bulky- was attached to a thick wire that angled downward. Max waited until David had joined him and closed the door behind, and then he flipped the switch.

  The stark white of florescent light flickered on below them. The only thing they could see at the bottom of the narrow stairwell was the floor; the same gray-painted concrete as the steps. The chemical smell was stronger. Max and David followed their noses.

  Once out of the stairwell, they were standing in a roomy basement turned long ago into the mortuary's prep room. Not a window in the place. Max and David's eyes teared against the ambient chemical sting. To their left, a long Formica counter was built against the wall with numerous metal drawers and cabinets built under it. There were wood and glass-paneled shelves above, filled with jars and bottles of who-knew-what. Rubber tubes, bottles, aprons, gloves, towels and canisters sat on the counter along with needles, clamps and other shiny metal tools, all arranged neatly in their place.

  Two oblong white enameled tables on wheels waited in the middle of the room, their edges raised, the surfaces with a shallow slope toward a center drain. Between the tables, in the floor, another drain. Above them, protruding from the low ceiling was a metal hood with a fan encased in wire: the exhaust system for this windowless place. Against the wall at the head of the tables rested a pale green enameled machine with metal-ended rubber tubes, dials all over it and wide, empty sockets where things were obviously meant to be screwed into it. Fluids, probably. Pumped in or pumped out.

  Here it is, Max thought, where we all end up. Either whole or in pieces.

  David's harsh whisper brought him around. "Max ..!"

  "Yeah," he whispered back.

  "You okay?"

  "Yeah. Sorry."

  David was standing at the wall opposite the counter, where three white refrigerator-like doors, about three feet square, were built shoulder-high into the block. Below these was a slotted metal panel the same size as the doors, with something whirring steadily behind it. Refrigeration for the dead.