by Ronald Malfi
He could still hear Wendy Crawly’s voice, as clear and sharp as a whip-crack, in his head: The creek has been flooding and the Narrows are like rapids, Ben. He didn’t like the fact that the kid had been missing all day. Again, his mind returned to Maggie Quedentock. What had she hit last night on Full Hill Road? What had she thought she had hit?
Turning around in the cube, Ben powered up the computer. When the Google home page came up, he typed “livestock mutilation” into the search bar then hit Search. The first hit was a Wikipedia entry on something called “bovine excision” which was defined as the apparent killing and mutilation of cattle under unusual or inexplicable circumstances. Ben scrolled through the web page, reading the text with mounting curiosity. He read an account of a horse named Lucy who had been found by her owners dead in a field, her head and neck removed of its flesh. According to the horse’s owner, there was a strong medicinal smell in the air.
“That’s what it was,” Ben muttered to himself.
Both Eddie and Mike turned to look at him. “Talking to yourself now, Sarge?” Mike said.
“That smell last night in Porter’s field,” Ben said to Eddie. “Remember it?”
“Burned my nose,” said Eddie.
“How would you describe it?”
Eddied shrugged and frowned, which was his way of contemplating a question, Ben knew. Eventually, he said, “I guess it smelled like something dead and rotting.”
“Did it?” Ben asked. “Are you sure? Or do you just think that because that’s what you expected to smell?”
For whatever reason, Mike laughed again. The sound of it was beginning to grate on Ben’s nerves.
Sucking at his lower lip, Eddie thought for a few more seconds. Then he said, “I guess it smelled like…well, it reminded me of maybe the locker room at the YMCA over in Garrett, you know what I mean? How sometimes the smell of the locker room stings your eyes.”
“Gross,” Mike Keller grumbled.
“Yes,” Ben said. “Exactly.”
“What are you getting at?” Eddie asked.
Ben turned back to the computer. “I’m not sure yet.”
He continued to read, only to learn that Lucy’s owner later brought other farmers to the field to examine the dead horse’s remains. What they discovered that day were hunks of horse flesh scattered around the field. When one of the other farmers touched one of the pieces, the article attested that the hunk of flesh exuded a greenish sludge that burned the farmer’s hand. The medicinal odor had lessened by this point, though the smell of it was still in the air.
Ben sat up straighter in his chair. He was thinking of the foamy, green goop that had hung from the broken half of skull, and how some of it had crusted to a hard web in the cow’s large eyelashes.
“What time did the guys leave for the Shultz farm?” Ben asked.
“Just before you came in,” said Mike. “You probably passed them out on Belfast when you pulled in here.”
Ben stood, grabbing his campaign hat off the desk.
“Where you going?” Eddie asked.
“Home, to get some sleep. I’ll be in early tomorrow. I want to call over to the sheriff’s department in Cumberland, see if they’ll lend us some bodies to do a search of the woods around the Crawly place.”
“You really think something happened to that kid?”
Ben shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”
Eddie frowned. “What should we do?”
“Make some calls to Mexico. See if you can track down this Mexican vampire.”
Mike Keller laughed.
5
It was twelve thirty when Tom Schuler’s 1972 Ford Maverick pulled into the Quedentocks’ driveway. Leprous with rust, the car belched black clouds of exhaust, and had the words SCHULER’S AUTOMOTIVE stenciled on the doors, an irony that was lost on most everyone who utilized Tom Schuler’s services.
The rain was coming down in cloudy torrents. Maggie saw the Maverick’s headlights pull into the driveway and curve around the side of the house. She’d turned off the floodlights in the backyard by this point, not wanting to see the whitish figure that had been crouched on the hood of the Pontiac anymore. The Maverick’s headlamps blew twin cones of yellowish light into the shadows as it circled around the dirt turnabout and came to a stop between the back patio and the Pontiac.
When Maggie opened the door, she was still holding the shotgun.
“Jesus,” Tom said, rainwater pouring down his face. “Put that thing down, Mags.”
“Get in here,” she said, grabbing him by the lapel of his dungaree jacket and yanking him inside. She slammed the door shut and locked it behind him. Then, standing on her toes, she peered out into the darkness. “It might be gone,” she muttered.
“What’s that?” said Tom. He was pooling water on the floor, standing there like someone rescued from a sinking ship.
Maggie whirled around. The intense look on her face froze Tom in his tracks. He looked powerless to move.
“You didn’t see anything out there?” she asked him.
“See what?”
“Anything,” she said. “Something that looked like a child but wasn’t.”
Tom chuckled nervously. “Hon, you okay? Put the gun down, please.”
Maggie thought, More pls! and shuddered.
Dripping water on the floor, Tom went to one of the living room windows and brushed aside the curtain. He peered out into infinite blackness. “Doll, there ain’t nothin’ out there.”
“Don’t tell me what’s out there,” she said.
“What’d you think you saw?”
“I hit a kid with my car leaving your place last night,” she blurted, frightened by how close she was to tears. “I mean, it looked like a kid, but I don’t think it was. Not really. Because he’s come back and he’s out there.”
“Maggie…”
“It has skin as white as paper. I don’t think he was…wearing any clothes…”
“A naked kid,” Tom muttered, still peering out the window. “Don’t that beat all…”
“I’m serious.”
Tom turned away from the window. His sandy hair was plastered to his head and his light eyes, set deeply into the pockets of his skull, looked the way she imagined a blind person’s eyes to look. “Seriously. Put the fucking gun down, Maggie, before you blow a hole in the floor. You’re freaking me out.”
She laid the gun down on the couch.
Tom sighed. “Thank you.”
“I don’t know why I told you to come over. I guess I was scared.”
“I know why you told me to come over.” He took a step toward her.
“Please, Tom. I’m not thinking right.”
“Whoever is?” He laughed. It was a shrill, mechanical sound. Had she really allowed this man’s mouth on her body? Had she really accommodated his erection, taking it inside her, laughing drunkenly the whole time? She suddenly loathed herself.
“I’m sorry,” she said, running a hand through her hair. “I shouldn’t have told you to come over.”
Tom peeled his wet jean jacket off. He tossed it onto the couch, where it soaked through the fabric, though he didn’t seem to notice. Maggie didn’t have it in her to tell him to move it.
“If you’re worried about Evan finding out,” he began, but she cut him off.
“Stop. This has nothing to do with you and me. I was scared, that’s all. Do you understand that?”
“Sure. But I’m here now. Things are okay.”
No, Maggie thought. No, they’re not. Not by a long shot.
Tom took another step toward her. She lifted up both hands, palms out toward him. Tom froze. “What?” he said. “What is it?”
“This should have never happened,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
The pleasant, helpful look on Tom Schuler’s face quickly faded. It was replaced by a look of pure agitation—a look that spoke of a lifetime of betrayal and distrust. What had she done? Traded one abusive lunatic for another?
&
nbsp; Then Tom’s face softened. Holding up his own hands, he said, “Listen, Mags. You’re upset. Something frightened you. That’s cool, I can dig it. Just relax, keep calm. Let’s sit on the couch and talk, okay?”
She didn’t want to sit on the couch with him. She didn’t want to talk.
Again, thunder crashed and shook the house. Lightning illuminated the yard, causing Maggie to whirl around and stare out the crescent of glass in the door. As if in the explosion of a flashbulb, she saw the silhouette of the boy back on the roof of the Pontiac, there and then gone in the brief flash of light, and she screamed.
Tom came up from behind her and wrapped his arms around her. One of his big hands covered her mouth. She felt his body against her back and winced.
“Quiet,” he said. “Okay? Quiet, Mags. What is it? What’s wrong?”
His hand dropped away from her mouth.
“It’s back,” she panted. Her whole body trembled. “It’s in the yard, on the car.”
Tom chuckled. He pushed her aside and peered out through the half-moon of glass. If he saw anything, he didn’t say so.
Bouncing on the balls of her feet, Maggie said, “Well? Do you see it? Tom?”
“Son of a bitch,” Tom muttered to himself. When he opened the door, the violent storm spilled into the house. Maggie whined and took two steps back, though she was unable to pull her eyes from the doorway. Tom hustled out into the rain, leaving the door open at his back, and marching across the wet grass. Maggie watched him until the darkness swallowed him up.
Finally, she was able to propel herself forward. She slammed into the door and threw it shut, locked it. Standing on her toes, she peered through the window at the top of the door but the yard was too dark to make out any details. She could see Tom’s form fading into the shadows, masked by a screen of silvery rain. Beyond Tom she could make out the dark, low, hulking shape of the Pontiac hiding in the darkness like a panther ready to spring.
“Fuck.” She slid along the wall and flicked on the rear floodlights again. Then she returned to the half-moon window in the door. The floodlights illuminated a wide, circular patch of lawn…but she couldn’t see Tom. His car was still there and his muddy footprints were quickly filling up with rainwater…but he was nowhere…
You’re losing your shit, Maggie, said her head-voice. Your pot is boiling over and your beer is foaming over the top of the glass.
“Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it…”
In the darkness, beyond even the weeping willow tree, she thought she saw a flash of light. Then she heard a scream, a man’s scream. Tom.
She fumbled with the lock then swung the door open. Rainwater blew into her face. “Tom!” she screamed into the night. “Tom!”
There was movement toward the back of the property. She imagined it to be a struggle. What was out there? What had happened to Tom?
A second scream cracked the night, causing the hairs on Maggie’s arms to stand at attention. She retreated back into the house and slammed the door shut. As she fumbled to lock it again, the entire scene was underscored by yet another peal of thunder.
Maggie snatched the shotgun off the couch then went to the wall and turned off the living room lights. Now, only the outdoor floodlights were on, casting a dull, yellow glow over the grass, the dirt turnabout, the Pontiac and Tom Schuler’s ancient Maverick. Peering out one of the living room windows, Maggie’s breath fogged up the glass. She had the barrel of the shotgun nearly pressed against her cheek. Another flash of lightning brought into brief relief an image of two figures beyond the willow tree, one smaller than the other. But she couldn’t be sure. Fuck…she couldn’t be sure…
Whimpering, she reached up and clicked off the floodlights. She didn’t want to see anymore, didn’t want to be reminded of what was going on out there.
You hit it with your car, Maggie, and it’s not going to let you be.
“Shut up!” she screamed. “Just shut the fuck up!”
And you know what it is, Maggie…you know damn well what—
A face appeared in the living room window, a white oval with muddy, black eyes framed in darkness. Maggie screamed and jerked away. The curtains fell back into place, obscuring the hideous face. Scooting back across the floor, Maggie stopped when her shoulders struck the back of couch. She held the shotgun in both hands and had the barrel aimed at the window, her finger on the trigger.
Hit it with your car, Maggie, said the head-voice. Hit it with your car. But you did something much worse before that, didn’t you? Oh yes, you did…
Maggie wailed. Sobbing, she crawled around to the front of the couch, the shotgun dragging along the hardwood floor. She pulled the cushions off the couch and propped them up around her in some semblance of a barricade.
Yes, said the head-voice. Pillows and couch cushions will certainly protect you from the thing that fell out of the sky.
“Shut…the fuck…up,” she rasped.
Outside, lightning lit up the world like a nuclear bomb.
6
A blast of thunder woke her. It sounded like the whole world was about to end. Somehow, she had fallen asleep amidst the barricade of couch cushions and throw pillows on the floor of the living room. The second her eyes flipped open, she recalled all the events of that evening with brutal and frightening clarity. Something heavy sat across her lap. In the dark, she ran her fingers across it and discovered it was Evan’s shotgun.
Tom. Tom had gone outside. Had he ever come back?
“Tom?” she called, her voice was raw from sleep.
When no one answered, she remembered locking all the doors and windows. Just how in the world did she expect Tom Schuler to get back into the house?
He won’t be coming back into the house, she thought, propping herself up on her elbows as her eyes acclimated to the gloom. Something took him. Out there in the yard, something took Tom Schuler.
Still groggy, she managed to climb to her feet and, hefting the shotgun along with her, went to the bank of living room windows. Peeling away the curtain, she looked out upon the night. Rain still fell, churning the earth like muddy soup. The moon had cleared the strands of dark clouds, grinning down at her like the ghostly white face of a cadaver that had been cleaved in half.
Tom’s car was still in the turnabout, rain pattering its windshield and roof. Beyond, the yard was a sloping black mudslide of lightlessness. She could see nothing of substance beyond the far gate at the edge of the property.
What time was it? She went into the kitchen and checked the digital clock on the microwave. It read 1:47 a.m.
What the fuck happened to Tom?
No. She wouldn’t lose her shit again. She would remain cool. Tom was out there. He had to be out there.
Her sweaty fingers tightened around the shotgun.
Go check. You can do this. It was the head-voice again, but this time it seemed intent on helping her through it. Go out onto the patio and check. Call his name. Maybe he’s out there and he’s hurt. Maybe he needs your help.
Trembling, she went back to the rear door. The crescent of glass at the top was foggy from her panting respiration. She had turned the floodlights off earlier—at least, she thought she had—and the world beyond was nothing but outer space. Should she turn the floods on again and see what lay beyond the door, beyond the patio? What was out there in the muddy field along with Evan’s Pontiac and Tom’s old Maverick?
Her hand found the light switch beside the door. The switch pressed against the sweaty palm of her hand as she pressed hard against it. In her mind’s eye, she could see herself flipping on the floods…and seeing the horror that remained of Tom Schuler in the field, his body torn to shreds, his face mangled into a pulpy stew.
“I can’t,” she whined, crying again.
Do it, said the head-voice.
That thing that had been crouched low on the roof of the car earlier…that horrible thing that had appeared at one of the living room windows as she had looked out…
She
pulled her hand away from the light switch and brought it to the dead bolt on the door. She turned the bolt; the sound was like opening a bank vault, and it echoed in her ears. Under her breath she counted to three…then, gripping and turning the knob, she yanked the door open.
Icy wind and cold pellets of rain attacked her. With a shriek she thrust the barrel of the shotgun out the door and into the night, foolishly waving it around like a sword. She could see nothing, hear nothing.
“Tom!” she shouted into the monsoon. “Are you out there? Tom! Tom!”
Only the wind howled back, frightening her even more.
When she thought she caught movement off to her right, she screamed and almost dropped the shotgun. Something quick and catlike darted out from the approximate area of the willow tree and ran toward the house along the property line. A low, animalistic groan escaped from Maggie’s throat as she backed through the doorway, the barrel of the shotgun flailing about.
Back inside, terrified and soaking wet, Maggie slammed the door and bolted it again. Sobbing freely now, she carried the shotgun back to the spot on the floor where she’d erected the couch cushions and throw pillows into a makeshift pillbox, and lowered herself to her knees. She pulled the shotgun back into her lap and leaned back against the couch. The roof creaked as the storm pounded against it. Outside, lightning made the windows glow like sapphires.
Maggie squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for daylight.
7
It was nearly two in the morning when Ben finally arrived back home. The house greeted him with its usual silence and he didn’t bother turning on any of the lights as he came through the front door and staggered exhaustedly down the hallway toward the master bedroom. He stripped out of his uniform, set his gun on the nightstand beside the bed, and unbuckled his duty belt, which he hung over the back of a wooden chair that faced an antique rolltop desk. In the left breast pocket of his uniform shirt, Ben took out the gold-plated Zippo lighter he always kept with him—his father’s lighter. The old man’s initials, W. J., were etched onto one side. Feeling more nostalgic than usual, Ben turned the lighter over in his fingers a few times before finally setting it down on the nightstand beside the bed. Check out your only son now, Dad. Then he peeled off his undershirt and stepped out of his underwear. Instantly he felt about seventy pounds lighter and as naked and vulnerable as a turtle without a shell.
