Bitten

by K. L. Nappier

  "Wow," Max whispered, walking over. "Small town morticians with the latest in amenities."

  "This is probably the only funeral home for miles around. No doubt, Mr. Truman and his sons put these to good use."

  "Well, let's see the latest," Max said and grabbed the thick black handle of one of the end doors. He yanked it open and was met by chilled air and the aged soles of two human feet, one of them with four gangrenous toes. Max nearly slammed the door against the stench before catching himself in time to ease it shut. He lurched away, gagging.

  He braced his hands against his knees and looked at David. "Your turn," he said.

  David eyed the enameled doors. "You know, traditionally, as a healer, I'm not supposed to be near the dead, much less handle human corpses."

  "Too bad, Medicine Man." Max straightened up and nodded toward the doors.

  David gave him a wary, half-smile. His Adam's apple bobbed, and then he reached for the door at the farthest end. He pulled it open and stared. "Bingo."

  The smell of decay crawled across Max's face as he came to David's side. David reached in, pulled on the long tray and the Beast's massive carcass glided out before them, head first. The men tugged bandannas from their back pockets and covered their noses. The size of it and the silver glint to the fur (the color of gun metal in the prep room's unnatural light) was unmistakable. At first, Max and David could only stare, caught between relief that one more incarnation of the Beast had been obliterated and a melancholy for the lost host, wondering who he or she might have been. Most likely, the cattleman who was missing.

  There was only half a carcass on the table. It had been cut cleanly just above the hind quarters. Perplexing at first, until David went to the middle door and looked in. There lay the rest. It had been sawed in two in order to fit into the human-sized compartments. But other than the surgical severing, all the damage was at the head.

  "Sweet Mother of ..." Max whispered under his bandanna. "Look at that."

  The Beast had been all but beheaded. The lower jaw was completely ripped away. There wasn't a scrap of it left, not a bone shard to be seen. Where the throat and most of the neck should have been, nothing but strips of hide lay stiff and shriveled like a tattered veil over the gap.

  The men straightened up and looked at each other. David's expression was as confounded and disturbed as Max felt. "What the hell ?" Max said.

  David shook his head, looked around for a moment, and then went to the counter at the opposite wall. He tied his bandanna to his face, picked up a pair of the rubber surgical gloves and wiggled them on. Back at the Beast, David dipped his hand into where the throat used to be and pushed back the stiffened flaps of hair and hide.

  "I don't see any silver," he said, then dug deeper, probing into the exposed cavity between the shoulders. He shook his head and shifted, working his fingers up into the meat against the skull. "I don't feel anything. No slugs ..." he kept working "... no sharp objects ..."

  He pulled back the remnants of neck muscle and worked his fingers around the vertebrae jutting out from where the neck was barely attached to the sinew between the shoulder blades.

  "See here," he said.

  Max pressed his bandanna closer around his mouth and nose and came in for a look. "See what?"

  The spinal cord between two vertebras was ripped and thready, barely connecting the two bones. David fiddled with the vertebra that was most exposed.

  "There's a nick out of it," he said, "as if something struck against it. Like a blade? A pick?"

  Max peered more closely. "How can you tell? I mean, how do you know that isn't what a vertebra just looks like?"

  David shrugged, still thumbing the disc. "Growing up Indian," he replied, "slaughtering my own sheep."

  "I don't know, David. All that damage doesn't look like the clean work of a knife or axe."

  They were quiet a moment, at an utter loss. David kept digging around, working his way up on what was left of the neck.

  "You can see the same kind of nick on the bone here, too, near the base of the skull." He straightened back up and looked at Max. "What do you think?"

  "You'd know better than me."

  "Making my own mutton doesn't make me an expert. But my guess is, once the necropsy is done by the ones who are, they'll post the results in the local paper. Until then, we're not going to learn much. "

  "If we show up tomorrow, we might find out a little more about how the remains were found, though."

  David nodded. He crossed over to the sink, washed the rubber gloves and put them back in their place. The smell of rot was becoming unbearable. Max rolled the carcass back into its compartment.

  "Let's get the hell out of here."

  * * *

  The four men in suits milled outside the hearse's garage, which was open this morning. Max guessed they were Mr. Truman and one of his sons, plus the county coroner and the veterinarian. From their car, Max and David had watched as the two presumed to be the coroner and vet had driven up. When a final car arrived and deposited a man in khaki trousers and zippered jacket, Max and David pegged him as the zoologist and got out of their own car. They caught up to the group just as they turned to go into the mortuary.

  "Hello!" David called. They turned to watch his and Max's approach.

  Max's belly was tight with anxiety and anticipation. He and David were in their airport clothes, the suits and fedoras they had worn for the trip to Missouri. They were still rumpled, but they were the only suits they had with them. Max's had a coffee stain he couldn't quite dab out, and it stood out a little against the gray wool. He just hoped the bluff they were about to try would explain why they were showing up looking like this.

  As they joined the group, David stretched out his hand and all the men took it in turn, eyeing him and Max quizzically. "I'm Joseph Wenatchee and this is my associate Tim Elliott."

  "How-ya-do. How-ya-do," Max said, shaking hands all around. "Excuse our appearance would-ja? We only got into Springfield late last night and had to hurry down this morning."

  David launched right into the ruse. "We've been following the story about your man killer and we're hoping your discoveries will help our own work," he said.

  The two presumed-to-be-Truman's didn't have much to say, and the man Max pegged as the county coroner crossed his arms warily, sizing up Max and David. It was the veterinarian and the coroner who did most of the talking:

  "I'm Ed Webster, DVM," the vet said pleasantly. "Where you from?"

  "Washington State," David replied.

  Dr. Webster cocked his head. "What is it you think we can help with?"

  "We work in conservation relating to the Washington state parks. There's been a series of presumed wolf attacks near the borders of a couple, but there are just not that many lupine authorities around anymore, Dr. Webster, even where we come from. So we're getting expert opinion from all over. In our research, we stumbled onto this story while scrolling through some library microfilms."

  Max shut up and waited to see if anyone would buy it. It was a fast and loose tale, and they hadn't had much time to perfect it. But he and David were depending on the fact that there would be no particular reason to doubt their story.

  David was poised with a pencil and note pad, as if ready to jot down every word of wisdom.

  The coroner chimed in. "Our situation is probably a different one from yours. This isn't a case of a wild pack or even a single wild wolf. This was an animal let loose ... or got loose .. from its owner."

  "Oh ... I see," Max said, affecting disappointment. "And your name is ...?"

  "Sam Crozier. Sorry you came all this way for nothing."

  "How you know it isn't wild?"

  "The size, for one. No wolf in the wild could ever be as big as this --"

  "But that's what we're here to determine," Dr. Webster interrupted. He nodded toward the zoologist. "Neither Mr. Taylor nor myself has had a chance to examine it yet. But, yes, from Mr. Crozier's description, it's doubtful."
>
  His pencil still at the ready, David homed in on Mr. Crozier. "Telling us how it was trapped and killed would still be very helpful .."

  "Well ... I wish I could say that's what happened. But the truth of it is, a local man out hunting happened onto the carcass."

  From the corner of his eye, Max saw David swallow disappointment -the real kind this time- as he jotted down Mr. Crozier's comment for affect. "Is that so?" Max said.

  "In a way, we're lucky to have had a stubborn winter this year. There was a late ice storm come through a few weeks ago. It went a long way in preserving the animal. A local man out trapping wanted to get to his snares as soon as there was enough thaw and that's when he spotted it. It was half buried in a frozen stream and covered with an ice layer."

  "That's one of the things we'll be determining," Mr. Taylor, the zoologist, said. "How long the animal's been dead, as well as how it died."

  "Can you tell anything just by looking at it now?" David asked, deferring to Mr. Crozier again.

  "All I know is that it's a damn mess. Throat's gone and lost its jaw in the bargain." He glanced toward Webster and Taylor. "Of course, I can speculate ..."

  "Please ..." Max coaxed.

  "No, no. I'd rather consult with Dr. Webster and Mr. Taylor first."

  "Will you do the necropsy here?"

  "Just cursory," Webster replied. "We'll transport the carcass up to Springfield for a thorough exam."

  "Would-ja mind if we tagged along?" Max asked. "We understand you're only doing a quick looky-lou, but--"

  Now, Mr. Truman spoke up. "No. I'm sorry. But we have the remains of one of our longtime citizens in the home. We really need to have this situation with the animal resolved as quickly as possible so we can see to him."

  Max held up his hands, all innocent intent. "We won't say or touch a thing. Ya won't even know we're there. Just flies on the wall ..."

  "No," Truman repeated, courteous but firm. "I'm sorry."

  "Okay. Sure. Understand. Too many cooks, eh?"

  Truman smiled politely but made no move to lead everyone inside.

  "Well ... hey, thanks," Max said, shaking hands all around once more. "You've been more helpful than you think."

  David made his final handshaking round, and then they headed back to the car. Behind the dash, they watched the group disappear into the funeral home.

  "It would've been a bonus to get in there with them," David said.

  "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride." Max leaned into the seat and drummed his fingers on the car door's arm rest. "Now what?"

  "Back to something more routine. Just like you like it," David replied. "Let's see if we can track down who the host was."

  Chapter Six

  The Morris Hotel and Boarding House

  Morehead City, North Carolina

  Early Spring, 1950

  Dusk. New Moon.

  From his sleeping room in the flophouse, he watched the light soften over the harbor. It had a shabby charm, but it was an east coast view and he missed the west's coastal sunsets. He coughed, then took another long drag off his Lucky Strike.

  He felt restless but that was nothing new. He was always eager to move on whenever he could, even as he yearned for home. Smoking helped. Drinking didn't. When he drank, he always got drunk. Which always ended him up in a jail somewhere, because he'd pick a fight if he wasn't lucky enough to cross paths with someone who didn't like the looks of him and wanted to start one first.

  But the last time that had happened was years ago, when he'd found himself in some Texas backwater with a two-cell jailhouse. He had watched the moon grow more bloated night after night, the sweat dripping from his forehead, not knowing if he'd get out before it was completely full. The bail money had come through just in time and he hadn't touched a drop of booze since.

  The phone rang, startling him even though he was expecting the call. He picked up the receiver, "Yeah."

  "It's me."

  "Who else would it be?"

  His comment was met with momentary silence, then, "Is everything okay?"

  "Yeah, sure. Sorry. Just tired. How about you?"

  The answer was as sarcastic as his had been irritable. "Oh, never better."

  He ignored the comeback and tried to lighten things up. "So whatdiya know, whadiya say?"

  There was another meaningful pause. This call wasn't going to be a routine check-in. "I think they found your last kill."

  The words stopped him in mid-drag. Finally, he pulled the smoke the rest of the way in and watched the dusk deepen over the harbor.

  "Are you there?"

  "Yeah."

  "Come home."

  He drew on the Lucky until it nearly burned his fingers, and then crushed it into the spent butts crowding the ashtray. He coughed, then said, "No."

  "You don't have time to chase this line down."

  "When'd you find out about them?"

  "When do you think? They don't make a move without keeping everyone updated. They're in Missouri now."

  "Okay. Stay by the Ham. Let me know when you learn more."

  Again came the command. "Come home."

  "Listen ... you don't have to worry. This is a solid lead. I head out tomorrow and I'll be in Freeport by nightfall."

  "It's not solid. You don't know if it's true, we've never seen this before... "

  "David has."

  "No, he hasn't, not personally."

  "I'm telling you, this is real."

  "The going will be too slow. Leaving the country, for godsake? It's not worth it for something so uncertain."

  "What's the alternative ..."

  " Come home ."

  He snatched up his pack of Lucky's. "You tell me how that's an alternative. This way I have a crack at a host instead of some ... instead of some poor ..." He coughed again and pressed the receiver between his ear and shoulder while he fumbled for a cigarette.

  Another silence over the phone before the reply came, defeated: "I know ... I know."

  He lit up. "I better go. This is costing money."

  "I don't like this. We'll be out of contact too often."

  He said nothing, feeling stubborn. He lit up.

  An exasperated sigh came across the line, then: "All right .. wire me as soon as you can. And call every time you can find a phone."

  He didn't want to hang up with this tension between them. He tried to lighten the mood again. "Collect from the Caribbean? That'll be a pretty penny."

  "As soon as you can."

  "Always. You know that." He heard a soft click -a connection severed near the coast of a different ocean- and he set the phone's receiver in its cradle.

  The harbor was almost dark now. The lights of the little port town were beginning to come on and he could make out lamps glowing through the portals of some of the sloops and trawlers at anchor. There was relief in knowing that these and the stars would be the only things shining tonight.

  He heaved a sigh, which ended in another cough, and wondered if he should have covered his tracks a little better. It had always been a matter of time before Max and David crossed his path. It was surprising that it hadn't happened before now. He took another drag, then mindlessly scraped his thumbnail back and forth across his teeth, trying to recall if he had been sloppy in any way back in Missouri ...

  Two days before the last full moon. The memory of those papers gathered up and stacked hastily as he'd heard the host coming through the door. He had just barely made it out the window ...

  His hand clenched and he cursed himself. They'd figure out who the host had been. It was just a matter of time. And then they'd find what he had found. Sure they would. Even if the host had put everything back in place. And they would make the same connection he had made. Worse, they had the money to fly and would head here as soon as they could. The only unknown was when . But it wouldn't be much longer.

  He finished the Lucky, jammed the butt into the ashtray pile and rubbed his face. Forget it. No point in worrying a
bout it. Even if they already knew what was going on, they were still in Missouri. They would have to figure out exactly where to go and how to get there. A lot of things to put together before the next First Night.

  At least, he was already here and set to leave tomorrow.

  He tried to relax, let his mind wander, and his gaze drifted to his rucksack sitting on a small table in the room's corner. He walked over, snapped on the hooded light hanging over the table, and rummaged to the bottom of the bag. He lifted the jawbone.

  Tracing his fingers across it brought a smile. He studied it under the light: the smooth white base, the yellow fangs longer than his fingers, the molars thicker than his thumbs. Cleaning it was how he had spent his evenings between travels. Tonight he'd wrap it carefully, pack it up and, tomorrow, leave it at the room manager's desk for mailing back home.

  When he caressed the bone, even on a moonless night, he could feel the Beast inside him stir.

  Chapter Seven

  Three Miles Southwest of Hollister, Missouri

  Early Spring, 1950

  Dusk. New Moon.

  To get a lead on whom the Beast's host had been, Max and David began with the last presumed victim, Lloyd Stonehill. The Springfield News-Leader stated that he was missing, his body yet to be found. But it was Max and David's hunch that Stonehill lay in two pieces at Truman and Sons; in death, his flesh irretrievably tangled with the Beast's.

  Finding where Stonehill had lived was proving almost as hard as finding the missing man himself. It wasn't lack of information that had eaten up most of the day. Max and David's ruse was that they were retired Army buddies looking for property to buy, which the Hollister locals seemed to accept when they gave directions. But every time Max and David got lost on the winding, unmarked country roads, they had to backtrack to Hollister again. New directions were given only after the ritual of country courtesy was repeated: a fresh round of somber, respectful shaking of heads as people considered the man's fate, then Max and David had to offer up friendly small talk of their own.