by Anthony Izzo
Dammit. Work. The wings, which had tasted good going down, started to churn. He hoped to hell another kid wasn’t missing.
“Meyers,” he said.
“I interrupt your lunch?”
It was the Lieutenant.
“Hey Lieutenant. And yes, you did.”
“Head over to 1637 Marigold.”
Meyers let out a big sigh. “Tell me we don’t have another missing kid.”
“Wish I had better news. Couple of twelve-year-olds didn’t come home for lunch. Mom’s getting nervous.”
“I’m on my way,” Meyers said.
He ended the call and pocketed the phone. Wiped his mouth and hands. Then he took out his wallet, removed a twenty, and threw it on the table. He got up and waved to the bartender, who nodded.
Outside, the fall air had set in. The leaves were beginning to turn. He always hated fall, if only because winter was soon to follow. Moving to the Carolinas looked more and more appealing with each passing year. Slogging through another Western New York winter didn’t exactly set his heart on fire.
This had been the third family he’d had to check on in the past two weeks. Each case had involved a disappearance. Eleven-year-old Sara Kincade was still missing. She’d ridden her bike to the 7-11 and hadn’t come home. Her father had called the cops when she hadn’t been back in an hour. They’d found her Schwinn mountain bike leaning against the wall outside 7-11, but there’d been no sign of the girl.
The second had been seventeen-year-old Jake Tapper. The boy had been overdue to come home from football practice. He was a star running back. There was talk of him playing Division One after high school. Right now he was a statistic.
To Meyers’ relief, the third had been a false alarm; nine-year-old Haley Ann McGrath had been found hiding in her grandparents’ garage. Apparently she was facing grounding from Mom and Dad. She’d hid out in the garage until her grandfather had spotted her tucked behind his Craftsman tool chest.
Meyers hoped this was another false alarm. There had been emergency meetings, press conferences, and constant news coverage of the disappearances. They’d caught one group of self-proclaimed vigilantes skulking around the woods with shotguns and hunting rifles. He guessed they hoped to find the kidnappers. They’d been cited and sent home.
He pulled into the mustard yellow ranch’s driveway. A woman in capris and a purple hoodie stood on the porch. She had short, bleach-blonde hair and a nose ring. She seemed ready to hop off the porch and come barreling at Meyers.
As he approached the porch, he said, “Detective Meyers.”
“Tanya Hart. Can you help. Please?”
“Let’s see what we have. It’s your kids?”
“My twins, Eric and Cole.”
Meyer said, “Where were they headed?”
“To the creek, and then to their friend Jason’s house.”
“Cross Creek?” Meyers said. “How long ago?”
“Yes. They left at nine. I told them to come home at noon. Texted them. Called their cells. Called Jason’s house. They never made it there.”
Those wings began to churn in his stomach. Nerves. This wasn’t sounding good; call it instinct. He was a glass nearly empty kind of guy. Screw half empty. He’d seen enough to warrant the pessimistic outlook. “What part of the creek?”
“They like to hang by the footbridge. Sometimes they catch crawfish and salamanders.”
“I know right where that is. Any other favorite hangouts?”
“The mall sometimes. GameStop. The comic book shop on Allen Street.”
“I’ll send officers to check those out. I’m going to personally check out the creek,” Meyers said. “Do you have a picture handy?”
“Do you think they’re okay?”
He had no answer for that. “That’s what we’re going to find out. The picture?”
She took her cell from her pocket and showed her the picture that served as her wallpaper. Two sandy-haired kids with lopsided grins. Jesus, he hoped he found them in one piece.
“Text me that, huh?” he said, and then rattled off his cell number.
She sent him the pic and his phone dinged with the alert.
Meyers pulled the unmarked to the end of Meadow Lane, a dead end that terminated in a wooded patch known as “The Pines.” Kids had been playing there since Meyers was in diapers. Over the years he supposed fewer and fewer kids went back there, as the woods couldn’t compete with YouTube and PS4. Still, the cops shagged teenagers from The Pines for drinking on a regular basis.
He parked, got out, and took a heavy Maglite from the back seat. Shadows and little sunlight in The Pines. He supposed it was a good place to hide out and drink.
Right now patrol cars were headed out to the places Tanya Hart had mentioned: the mall, the comics shop. Meyers had a feeling those boys were in the woods, for better or worse.
He slipped between two trees and followed a rough path that wound through The Pines. In the distance, the creek burbled. He spotted the stone footbridge that crossed to the other side of The Pines. No sign of the boys.
He came to the bank and peered over. Not much water in the creek. The water dribbled out from under the bridge. It was dark under there. He spotted something on the creek bed, a backpack strap, red. Poking out from under some brush.
Meyers slid down the embankment, skidding before catching his balance. His shoes slopped in the mud. It was one time he wished he didn’t have on a suit; the younger detectives favored jeans and work boots. Those would’ve suited him better.
He pulled his foot from the muck and it popped loose with a wet, sucking noise. Made his way to the pack and pulled it from the brush. It had stickers all over the back, which he presumed were bands he’d never heard of. Whatever happened to the days when The Who and Zeppelin reigned supreme?
The name written on a zipper tag read: C. Hart.
Cole. “Where are you two?”
Meyers’ hand went to his Glock. He shined the light under the bridge and saw only moss growing on the stones. He ducked under the bridge and passed through to the other side.
The creek disappeared around a bend. Still, there wasn’t much water. He followed the creek, stepping on slick rocks. As he rounded the bend, he saw why the water level was low: good-sized rocks had been stacked in the creek, forming a makeshift damn. He saw the bodies stacked on the rocks, one on top of each other, crossed in an “X.” Blood dribbled down the rocks.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Meyers said.
He got closer. The boy on top was shirtless. A large patch of skin had been cut from his back, revealing the muscle beneath. Two fingers on the right hand were removed. The second boy was also shirtless. He lay on his back, head cocked back, the throat gashed open. Part of one ear was missing.
Meyers rubbed his eyes, as if he could make the scene go away. No luck.
“Fuck,” Meyers muttered.
He worked his way back to the unmarked and called for help.
As he waited for patrol cars, an ambulance, and the crime scene techs to show up, he scanned the area. Kept a hand on his Glock. He had that prickly feeling on the back of his neck; he felt like he was being watched. Was the killer one of those sick fucks who liked to hang around and watch? If so, Meyers would love to put a few rounds into the son of a bitch.
The first patrol car pulled up. It was followed soon by the ambulance. In reality, he was glad other people were on the scene. He didn’t consider himself a coward; as a narcotics officer he’d gone through many a door on a drug raid without hesitation. Being down here in the Pines with two dead boys creeped him out.
Now he had to work the scene. He wasn’t sure which was worse: going back down in that creek or delivering the news to the mom.
Tanya Hart had fallen to her knees on the front porch when Meyers told her. He had crouched next to her and placed a hand on her shoulder while she cried. The department had a liaison officer who usually handled things liked this, but Meyers felt it his personal duty to notify vi
ctims’ families himself. It was the least he could do.
He had walked the boys’ mother through calling her parents, and they showed up about fifteen minutes later. He left them to grieve and got in his unmarked car.
He drove out to the town park and pulled into the lot adjacent to the ball diamonds. Killed the engine.
Dead kids. A mysterious man walking the roads. Three groups of people had reported seeing him in the past month, a tall man in a long coat. He wore a hood over his head. Two girls walking home from the movies had seen him crossing the road near the powerhouse. A UPS driver had spotted him out by the slaughterhouse. A third person had seen him crossing a farmer’s field.
In all three instances, patrol cars had been dispatched. All three times they found no one. Was this guy the killer, or just a transient wandering town? Either way, the town was scared. Kids were being escorted or driven to school by parents. One resident was asked to return his gun to its safe when he was observed sitting on his porch with a semiautomatic rifle.
He would never ask, but he wondered what possessed Tanya Hart to let her boys roam in the Pines when there had been two disappearances in town. He supposed you couldn’t live in fear, but the Pines was a potential murderer’s wet dream. It was isolated, dense, and allowed a perpetrator to slip away with relative ease.
Meyers thought that the boys’ mother may have doomed them by being lenient. Again, never something he would articulate to a grieving mom.
Talk of the Walking Man legend had surfaced. He’d heard people chatting about it in Tim Horton’s when he stopped for coffee. The town’s expert on supernatural lore had gone on local radio to discuss the Walking Man. Meyers didn’t know if such a thing existed, but he had to admit the town seemed cursed. Murders in 1968, disappearances in ’76, and now this.
He sat and looked across the baseball diamonds. Nearby the diamonds were three picnic shelters. On the other side of the park were woods. Meyers reflected that the park would likely be silent until they caught the creep. Kids would be kept home. If he had kids, he wouldn’t let them out of his sight.
Meyers took a deep breath and figured it was time to get back to work. Sometimes he came here and ate his lunch in his car. It was usually peaceful, but like the Pines, the empty park made his skin crawl.
As he was about to start the car, he saw someone standing near the woods. Maybe a hundred yards away. Someone in a hood and long jacket. “Son of a bitch.”
He got out of the car and started across the baseball diamond, dirt kicking up around his shoes. The hooded figure stood there, face cloaked in shadow. He ran, hand on his Glock. “Police! Don’t move!”
When he got within about a hundred feet, the person turned and darted into the woods.
Meyers chased after him. The hooded figure’s coat flapped behind him. Goddammit, he was fast. Meyers was losing ground. He was no runner. “Stop or I shoot!”
He had a good idea where the guy was headed: the network of caves on the other side of the park. He stopped, caught his breath for a moment, and kept going.
Every so often, the man would pause, as if to let Meyers catch up to him.
Meyers reached the caves and saw the man climb a boulder and disappear into one of them. He fumbled to get his cell phone out of his pocket. Called in for back up.
While he waited for his back up to arrive, he kept the Glock pointed at the mouth of the cave. “Come out and let me end this.”
1968- Tom
The monster was empty. Tom had hated the big mansion with the girls here, but with them gone, it felt like he was living in a dank castle somewhere out on the Scottish moors.
The funeral services were done. He’d had a short wake for the girls, two hours on one evening. He’d accepted hugs and handshakes from God-knows how many people. The funeral was the next day, and he watched four hearses take all he had left in the world to be buried like trash in a landfill.
Ladies from the First Methodist Church had brought lasagna, casseroles, soups, and enough baked goods to give him diabetes. He’d eaten very little of it, his stomach constantly nauseous. The reverend had come out twice, and he’d gotten hundreds of sympathy cards, some of them from people he didn’t even know.
But that had ended a month ago and he was left here alone.
Now, he was cleaning out Sara and Emily’s room. He looked at Sarah’s trophies: Division Champs, Girls’ Basketball; First Place, All-County Track Meet; MVP, Field Hockey. What a waste of talent. He plucked the trophies from her dresser and placed them in the box. Then he opened the dresser and took her clothes out. Those went in another box.
This would be the last load for today. It was getting dark out early now that fall was approaching. The last of the sunlight was rapidly dipping below the horizon.
When the box was full of clothes, he stacked the trophy box on top of it and carried them downstairs. He was piling boxes out in the shed to take to Goodwill.
He made his way to the shed out back, set the boxes down. He opened the shed door and stacked them inside with the others. As he came out, he saw a groundhog dart around the rear of the shed. Curious, he followed it. At the base of the shed was a hole where the woodchuck had disappeared. He made a note to get a trap. Those bastards would undermine the shed if he didn’t get them out.
Something caught his eye at the other end of the shed, something painted on the wall. It was a light brown, faded by the sun.
He examined it. A number four splashed in paint with a circle around it. It sent a chill through him. The longer he looked at it, the more he thought it resembled dried blood.
“Who the hell would do this?” he wondered aloud.
He turned and looked out at the expanse of the grounds. Felt like someone was watching him. Tomorrow he would take a bucket of soapy water and scrub that crap off the shed.
It occurred to him that the symbol might have something to do with the girls’ deaths. Was someone up by the house before they died? He didn’t want to think too much on that.
After locking up the shed, he hurried back to the house.
Tom awoke to see the man standing at the end of the bed. He gasped and sat up. The man stood wordlessly. It was dark, and he could only make out a shape at first, but the man came to the side of the bed.
Tom looked up at a face scarred by fire. The man’s flesh was scarred and lumpy. His scalp was bare and covered with sores, the hair gone. His eyes were a milky white, and at first, he thought he was in the throes of a nightmare.
Then the intruder gripped his wrist. The man’s skin felt dead and cold.
“Come with me. I have things to show you.”
Tom tried to pull away, but the intruder yanked him out of bed. The man wore an old army jacket and torn khaki pants. Jungle boots on his feet.
The man released Tom’s wrist.
“If you run,” he said, pulling a large combat knife from under his coat, “I’ll pin you down and flay you alive.”
“What do you want? You already took my girls. It was you, wasn’t it?”
“Their blood was necessary. Now let’s go.”
The man forced Tom downstairs and they proceeded to the basement. Tom hit the light switch, turning on the naked bulbs that were hung at various points in the cellar. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
They went to the big steel door that led into a tunnel. Tom had threatened the girls with eternal grounding if they’d ever ventured into the tunnel. The man opened the door and shoved Tom inside.
He spotted a dim glow at the far end of the tunnel. He knew that this led somewhere in the direction of the slaughterhouse. There had been an old hotel here before the house and meat packing plants had been built.
It stank of must in the tunnel. The man grabbed his wrist again, dragging Tom towards the light. A few times Tom stubbed his toes on unseen debris.
“Slow down,” Tom said.
“Quiet,” the man said.
When they reached the other end of the tu
nnel, Tom spotted the lantern on the ground. The corridor ended in a brick wall.
“What is this? Who are you?”
“My name is not important. Watch.”
The man placed a burn-scarred hand on the brick wall. To Tom’s surprise, the brick seemed to fade, then dissolve, revealing another small passageway behind. He blinked his eyes. “Did that brick just disappear?”
The man stepped through as if the brick weren’t there. Pulled Tom after him. On the other side of the small passageway was another steel door.
“Only I can open that door. You’ll be able to soon, as well.”
“Where does it go?”
“The sub-basement of the slaughterhouse.”
The man turned and looked at Tom. The white eyes, with their pupils gone, unnerved him.
“Is this a joke?” Tom asked.
The knife pressed against his throat. “No joke. You’re about to become me.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“This passageway will be yours. They can’t find you here. There are caverns under the town. You can access them through the caves in the park.”
This guy was crazier than a shithouse rat. “This doesn’t make sense. Who the hell are you?”
“I’m the Walking Man. And so are you.”
The man had dragged Tom back to the mansion and they were currently in the dining room, Tom seated in one of the chairs. The Walking Man, as he’d introduced himself, stood across from him, knife in hand. Tom remembered The Walking Man legend. Every kid knew it, told stories about it to scare their friends.
At least one person knew someone who’d supposedly seen him lurking around parks and in The Pines.
The man forced Tom to his knees, and he banged his kneecaps on the hardwood floor. A stink like rot mixed with burned flesh came off of the Walking Man.
He circled Tom, the floorboards creaking. “I killed those girls.”
“You fucking bastard,” Tom said.
“My debt is paid,” the Walking Man said.
