Bitten

by K. L. Nappier

  The winning directions came from the two-man police force in Hollister's town-hall-slash-courthouse-slash-jail: north on State Road 65, a few miles west on County Road 76, then "turn left on a gravel road that you'll see right after the last Burma Shave sign. Follow that 'til it peters out and you'll see a gate and a dirt road there on your left again. That's the Stonehill place."

  The metal gate was chained and padlocked. On either side, pasture -fenced with barbed wire- bumped up against a double row of oaks that canopied the road. A few black cows (or bulls, maybe, for all Max knew) looked up from their twilight grazing, the only witnesses to Max and David as they abandoned the car and scaled the gate. A few minutes later, the oak canopy gave way to land cleared for an unexceptional two-story house with gray slate siding and wide expanses of grazing land. The land was partitioned into smaller sections with barbed wire.

  There was a scraggly little yard on the approach to the house and a red Chevy truck parked to the right. Lloyd Stonehill had been a single man living alone, but for caution's sake Max went to the front door and knocked, not really expecting an answer and not getting any. David walked around the right side of the house while Max went the opposite direction.

  They met in the back yard, roomier than the front. Beyond there, the land sloped downward. The dirt road that had led them to the house continued on, leading to a sizeable barn of corrugated steel, rusty in patches but sturdy. There was a John Deere tractor, covered by a tarp, and a few pieces of equipment that looked to Max as if they were meant to be hitched to the tractor.

  They found another gate between the barn and the house. This one was just three lengths of barbed wire attached to a five-foot pole meant to be dragged away from the fence post. A loop of wire kept it in place. David thumbed it over the pole's top and he and Max walked down the slope toward the barn.

  There wasn't much to see. The road narrowed into two bare ruts which, in turn, faded into a field sprouting with new spring green. There were no cattle in the barn. Just dust, hay bales and empty stalls. No lingering signs of a slaughtered cow and her calf, either. The land continued its slope to another stand of trees that lined a river bank.

  They stood looking around a moment, then David said, "What do you think? Break and enter now or come back after dark?" But as they made their way back toward the house, they saw a man walking down the ruts toward them. And he wasn't smiling. Just over the rise, several cows (or bulls; Max still didn't know the hell which) trotted down the line of fencing, as if following him.

  Max took the initiative. "Hi, there!"

  The man nodded back, but still didn't smile as he came up to them. Max stretched out his hand and tried to remember which name he was using for this trip. "Are you taking care of the Stonehill property? I'm Tim Elliott. And this is Joseph Wenatchee."

  The man accepted Max's hand shake, then David's, but he wasn't enthusiastic about it. His expression was still flinty. "I'm Lloyd's neighbor. Ben Hoffman. That your car at the gate?"

  "Yes, it is."

  "I'd appreciate you stating your business."

  "Oh, sure! Didn't mean to be rude. I'm from St. Louis, originally. My family used to spend summers around here when I was a boy. Joseph and me are Army buddies, retired now, looking for property."

  "So you farm?" Mr. Hoffman asked, still unfriendly.

  "I do a little," David replied. "But, mostly, we're just looking for a couple of places out of the hustle and bustle."

  "Officer Whitley told us how to get here," Max said. "He mentioned Mr. Stonehill's disappearance ... probably a victim of those wolf attacks we read about? We meant no disrespect. But, as long as we were in the area, we wanted to take a look at the place before contacting his closest people. We went to the house and knocked. Nobody home."

  Hoffman relaxed a little at the mention of Officer Whitley's name. But his manner was still reserved. "Aren't no close people. 'Least not any that's been found. Another few months, unless Lloyd shows up, this place'll go to foreclosure and up for auction. But I gotta tell you, boys, I aim to be the high bidder for both the property and the remainder of the heifers. 'Bout twenty-five of his acreage is east and runs up against my west."

  Max and David nodded gravely, took a moment as if they were thinking over what Hoffman told them, then began back pedaling.

  "Well," Max said, "to be honest, Mr. Hoffman, I don't think we're likely to be at the auction trying to outbid you then." He looked questioningly at David, who nodded again as if he were inclined to agree. "It's a fine property," Max continued, "but we're not looking for this much land. Not on our Army pensions. We were hoping to talk to his family about buying an acre or two apiece. But if it's headed to foreclosure as a whole, that takes care of that."

  Hoffman finally offered them a smile, albeit a cautious one, and his posture relaxed a little more. Max asked respectfully, "Was Mr. Stonehill ... I'm sorry ... we don't know if he's passed on yet ... is Mr. Stonehill a good friend of yours?"

  Hoffman shrugged off the apology. "Nobody 'round here believes he's still alive. No, not a good friend. Didn't know him long enough. But he was a decent neighbor, for a new fellah."

  "Is that so?" David asked. "He wasn't from here?"

  "Picked up the place from Mrs. Penn. A widow lady, looking to move to town. I'd been helping her with the place since Bud died a year ago. I made her a fair offer, but Lloyd's was a damn sight more than what the land and cattle was worth. Same thing's happening in Branson ... strangers come in, buying up, not knowing what the hell they're doing. Well ... couldn't blame Emma for taking his offer over mine, for what she said he paid. The auction'll bring things back to balance now, anyway."

  "That's awfully big of you, to feel that way," Max said.

  Hoffman shrugged off the flattery, as he had the apology, and slid his hands into the side pockets of his overalls. "My name ain't Saint Hoffman. Truth is, I was more than ready to not like him, but he turned out to be a pretty good guy. Just green, was all. And he wasn't afraid to say so, about himself. Matter of fact, I bought most of his stock not long after he took over. He only wanted about a dozen head. Kept to himself, mostly, but he was all right. Didn't pester anybody and helped out best he could in return for being helped."

  He looked toward the cattle, milling about at the barbed wire. "That's why I'm here now, to mind the heifers. Appreciate it if you'd move your car. Gotta bring the feed down."

  "Yeah, sure," Max said, and they followed Hoffman as he walked toward the little herd. It seemed they had all made it to the fence by now and some began to low as Hoffman approached.

  "Ho, bossy, ho, bossy," Hoffman called in a calming voice. He unhitched another pole-and-wire gate and the animals past through, trotting faster the closer they got to the barn. Hoffman lead Max and David through the gate to the other side. He fastened the pole in place and they began the trek back to the car.

  "I'd think this would be a big job for someone who didn't know what he was doing," David said.

  "Big job even if you do. Got to say that for Lloyd. He wasn't afraid of work."

  "He must not have been a stranger to it, then," David replied.

  "From what he said, he wasn't."

  Max laughed amiably. "Sounds like he didn't hold down a cushy office job before moving here."

  "A Merchant Marine's what he told me. Ten or fifteen years."

  "How about that! Joe and me know the M.M.'s from the War," Max lied. "Good people. Did he ever mention the ship he worked on?"

  Watching the road as they ambled along, Hoffman finally offered a slight smile. "Saturday nights, a few of us might find ourselves up at the Bobber Tavern ... he only joined us a time or two before he disappeared, and then only after a lot of damn coaxing. But once he got started he could sure tell some tales." He tilted his head and squinted thoughtfully. " Esso Cardonia , was the one he served on longest he said. His best stories were about that one. Toward the end of his travels ... think he said he was on the Southport Gem ... Northport Gem ... something l
ike that. He didn't much like talking about that one. Why, you know it?"

  Max filed the names in his mind for later use. Southport Gem, Northport Gem He shook his head and said philosophically, "Eh, it was a long shot. And, anyway, I'm talking back during the war ..."

  "Yeah ... well ... like I said, he didn't talk much about that last ship. Mostly the other. I got the feeling his days on that last one weren't so good."

  I'll just bet , Max thought.

  They were at the gate and their window for small talk was closing fast. David asked outright, "The last ship he was on. What was its home port?"

  "Oh, hell, I don't remember," Hoffman replied; not really testily, but it was clear he wanted to get to his task. Dusk was slipping into night. He walked over to his truck, pulled off the road as far as possible without leaning into the ditch. He opened the driver side door and got in.

  "Well, good to meet you, Mr. Hoffman," Max said, slipping behind the wheel of the rental. "We appreciate you telling us what you know about the property. I think we'll look elsewhere."

  David leaned on the hood of the car and waved. Hoffman waved back, distracted, and started the truck. David got in the car. Max backed it out of Hoffman's way and they sat there, engine idling, as his tail lights disappeared down the road to the Stonehill house.

  "Well. Still think we should come back later?" Max asked.

  "I don't know ... Merchant Marines ... the trail to where and when Stonehill was bitten is probably long lost. We could be taking chances coming back tonight, and going to a lot of trouble for no pay off."

  They sat quietly, weighing the risks. Hoffman was sure to lock the gate when he left. If they returned, scaled it again, and broke into the house, it would be a long way back to the safety of the car if something went wrong. On the other hand, in the wee hours of the night, out here amidst acres and acres of pastures and fields, only a few scattered houses tucked far back from the main road ...

  "What the hell. We've come this far," Max said. "Better bring our picks, so we can get the car down to the house."

  * * *

  In the moonless dark, with a coyote crooning somewhere in the pastures, David found what they were looking for. He had been rummaging through Stonehill's writing desk while Max searched the only bedroom in use.

  When he heard David call, Max closed the dresser drawer he'd been rifling and followed his flashlight beam to Stonehill's sparse office. There was a banker's light on the desk but, like Max, David was using a flashlight for the sake of caution. He glanced up at Max as he came in, then back at something in his hand.

  David's beam was trained on two pieces of tax papers, mundane and uninteresting except for these words: ... Packet Vessel Southport Jewel. Home register: Morehead City, North Carolina.

  "There you are, brother," David murmured to the papers.

  "Well, well." Max let his own beam idle across the desk and started fiddling with the clutter there, fingering the ink blotter, leafing through a thin stack of papers on the corner by the lamp. It was a hodge-podge of unrelated material, as if Stonehill had gathered it in a half-hearted attempt to tidy things up. Max stopped when he uncovered a letter paper-clipped to an envelope. Its postmark was from the Dominican Republic.

  "David. You see this?"

  David laid down the tax papers and left the chair to stand beside Max. "No," he said, "I started in the desk's file drawer. What have you got?"

  Max motioned for David to read along with him:

  February 20, 1950

  Dear Mr. Stonehill,

  It is so kind of you to ask after my husband. Each day we thank the Saints Andrew and Nicholas, the Blessed Virgin and Our Dear Lord for Papo's continuing recovery, for it is no less than a miracle. He heals quickly, though the disfigurement will be with him always, but at least he is with us, and each day we grow more hopeful he will be able to return home.

  The doctor still expresses amazement that either of you survived such an ordeal and credits your quick actions with saving Papo. Had the Saints and Our Holy Mother not lead you to the attack and quickened your hand, my children would have lost their father and I would have lost the love of my life. I thank you again from the bottom of my heart.

  Please do not concern yourself for our sake. I simply cannot accept your generosity after you have done so much for us by delivering Papo from certain death. The only gift my family ever wishes from you is your company one day, should you ever return to our home, so that we may celebrate with you our mutual good fortune and together make offerings to the Saints and the Blessed Virgin.

  As for Chupacabra himself, the government men came. They did away with his body. They say since he is dead, why now start a panic? Our own commandante protested, but what can he do? He has been ordered not to speak of the incident. They scold us as well and warn of strong punishment if we spread 'lies.' Their word, not mine. But they cannot completely silence us. I whisper and my neighbors whisper. People should know the truth.

  I go now to visit Papo, so I will end with thanks to you yet again and prayers that Saint Nicholas and the Blessed Virgin keep you safe on your voyages so that you may return to us one day.

  In Eternal Gratitude,

  Rosa Maria Maya Salvador

  "Chupacabra." That was the telling word. Max first learned the legend when he was in Mexico, but the creature was infamous throughout Latin America and the Caribbean. A monster as old and illusive as vampires and zombies ... or werewolves. It was tracking Chupacabra across the Californian border that had taken Max, David and Samuel south to Mexico several years ago. The chase had paid off; not in a save, but at least the kill had ended one more incarnation of the Beast.

  So that was that. Lloyd Stonehill had indeed been the Beast's host, bitten while performing a heroic act. What sad irony.

  But even as the letter ended that mystery, it produced another. The letter was describing the Beast and what it had done to Se?ora Maya's husband and Stonehill. And yet her husband was alive?

  David grabbed the letter away from Max and swore under his breath; the Navajo equivalent of "son-of-a-bitch."

  "We have a twin," he said.

  * * *

  Amy's voice came back reedy over the phone and full of grogginess. It was hours before dawn in British Columbia. "You're going where ?"

  "To the Dominican Republic," Max repeated. He adjusted the motel room's blinds against the early morning sun. Behind him, David was packing some clothes over the false bottom of the weapons trunk. "It's on the island of Hispaniola. We left Branson last night and we're in Springfield now getting ready to catch a commuter flight to St. Louis. Then we're on a plane to the east coast. From there we're going to have to find our way over to the Bahamas and work our way down the Caribbean chain."

  Amy didn't answer right away, then finally said "okay" with a lot of uncertainty.

  "Have you or Paul heard anything from Samuel?"

  "No, not yet ..."

  "Well, shit, where the hell could he be ...? Have you tried calling him?"

  "Both ways. The phone operator couldn't make a connection, but that could mean anything. You know how it is there. Sometimes the electricity's up, sometimes it's down. On the other hand, I couldn't raise him on the Ham, either. But ... I don't want to worry yet. They could be having fuel problems, too. It's not as if both haven't happened at once before."

  A fuel shortage would mean no diesel for Samuel's emergency generator. "Okay ... all you can do is keep trying. Maybe when you check in with Mina, she'll have heard something this morning. If she hasn't, ask her to write him. Have her send him a wire, too." It finally occurred to Max he hadn't explained to her what was going on yet. "Amy ... David thinks the Beast we found here in Missouri was part of a twin incarnation."

  For a second or two, all that came back to him over the phone was the soft crackle of static. Finally she said hesitantly, "Wait .. you mean like he mentioned once a while back ...?"

  "Like he'd read in one of Stanislov's journals."

&nb
sp; "But the odds ..."

  "I know, I know. But we found a letter. It reads as if the host, Stonehill, may have stumbled onto the Beast before it could finish off a victim. Somehow, he managed to kill it before it could take out either him or the victim."

  "Max ... the prey surviving? A twinned incarnation? Either is a one in a million chance. Even the journals only mention something like it happening once, and that was ages ago. Long before any of us were even born ..."

  "If you read that letter, Amy, you'd feel like we do."

  "But ... well ... it's just ..."

  "Look, I know this is a lot to wake up to. What time is it there anyway? 4:30 or something? We'll call you again when we get to Morehead City."

  "Where ...?"

  "Morehead City, North Carolina. It ties in with what we found here. We want to make sure we don't miss anything on the way. Be on the radio to Mina at the regular time, all right?"

  "Sure, yeah, but ... yeah. All right. Don't worry."

  "You, too." Max hung up and looked over at David, waiting by the open door. The suitcases and trunk were ready to go.

  "Is everything good?" David asked.

  "Still no word from Samuel."

  David frowned at the news, but there wasn't much to say or do about it for the time being. Max walked over and, together, the men hoisted the weapons trunk. Max grunted, then said, "Is it me, or does this thing get heavier every time?"

  "It's you," David replied. "You're getting old."

  "Speak for yourself, gramps."

  * * *

  Morehead City's Port Authority Director turned to other business as the two strangers left his office. The north end dock master tapped at his open door.

  Looking up, he greeted, "Hey there, Ed. Come on in."

  "Hey, yourself, Barry." Ed made his way along the narrow floor space between the director's desk, filing cabinets and the two metal folding chairs Barry had had his secretary bring in for the visitors. Ed glanced back toward the door once he was at the side of the desk. "Was that an Indian, just was here?"