Cold Sanctuary (John Decker Series Book 2)

by Anthony M. Strong

  22

  At four-thirty that afternoon John Decker found himself in the office of town administrator Hayley Marsh. He had barely gotten back to his suite of rooms on the tenth floor when she called, asking if he would stop by a little later. Despite the fact that he had nothing to report – he certainly wasn’t telling her about his little excursion to the basement with Mina or their rendezvous that night – he agreed to meet Hayley anyway.

  So here he was.

  He glanced around, taking in the bland beige walls and bookcases lined with weighty tomes on such topics as town planning, accounting and public sector law. A pair of certificates hung in thin frames behind the desk. One was a Finance degree from the University of Anchorage. The other was a master’s degree in Public Administration. Next to these, in the corner of the room, stood an American flag on a vertical pole with a golden eagle perched on top.

  “I’m so sorry about last night.” Hayley sat behind the desk, her hands clasped in front of her. “Sheriff Wilder can be a bit of a bear to work with I’m afraid.”

  “It’s fine.” Decker wondered if she knew about the sheriff’s warning to steer clear of the investigation. “He feels that my presence here is surplus to requirements.”

  “I can assure you that I do not consider your presence unnecessary despite what Wilder may think,” Hayley said. “As I warned you upon your arrival, certain people, not a few of whom occupy positions of authority, are not on board with my decision to seek outside help.”

  “I have a feeling it’s not the outside help they object to.” Decker had grown accustomed to the strange looks, the whispered conversations, when he entered a room. He had also come to realize that he was viewed with distrust and dislike in certain circles. “I think it is me they object to.”

  “It is precisely because of what happened in Wolf Haven that I brought you in, Mr. Decker.” Hayley paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts. When she continued, her face had taken on a grave appearance. “Regardless of what Wilder thinks, there is something wrong in Shackleton, and it goes beyond a few wild animal attacks. There have been sightings. People have seen things that they cannot explain, things that scare them.”

  “Have you seen anything, Miss Marsh?” John sat on the edge of his seat. He had a feeling that he would soon learn why Hayley was so insistent on bringing him up here. He also hoped he might gain valuable insight regarding the true perpetrator of the killings.

  “Yes I have. Two weeks ago, in fact. Although I still find myself doubting what I saw,” Hayley said.

  “Go on,” Decker urged.

  “I was walking back to the tower late one night.” Hayley’s voice was low, almost a whisper. “It was very dark and wet, with a sleet filled rain that made everything feel colder than it actually was. A cover of low clouds had rolled in from the glacier and shrouded everything with a fine mist. I was alone, and despite having walked the route a hundred times, there was something about that evening that made me pick up the pace. I passed the boat yards, followed the railroad tracks for a while, and then cut across a section of scrubland, following a shortcut that took me through the parking lot instead of forcing me to walk the long way around on the road. Except that before I got as far as the parking lot, I was overcome by a feeling that I was being followed. It was nothing much, the sense of a presence, the sound of soft footsteps in the mist, but when I glanced back nothing was there, just the swirling mist.”

  Decker nodded. “So what happened?”

  “I assumed the footsteps were another person out late, returning to the tower, only they weren’t. There was this strange sound, a growl of sorts. It drifted on the wind, making it hard to tell which direction it was coming from.”

  “A dog perhaps?”

  “No. It was different, like nothing I’ve ever heard before. I got scared. I ran. I could see the tower rising out of the fog, and I headed toward it, but just before I reached the parking lot something darted in front of me. Something big.” Hayley closed her eyes for a moment, as if she was remembering what happened. When she opened them again they had taken on a haunted look. “I knew it was getting ready to attack, I could sense it, but then a car pulled in to the parking lot and turned in my direction. Its headlights lit everything up, and there, just for a moment, I saw it.”

  “And?” Decker wanted to hear what she had to say.

  “It had a pale, leathery body. It was hunched over on sinewy, squat legs. Its face was long and inhuman, with pointed ears, large round eyes and a mouth full of needlelike teeth. It watched me for a moment, as if summing me up, and then, before I knew it, the thing was gone.”

  “And it didn’t try to attack you?”

  “Oh I think it wanted to, but the car scared it away. I didn’t linger out there after that. I ran back to the tower, went straight up to my apartment and locked the door. I didn’t stop shaking for an hour.”

  “Did you tell Wilder?”

  “I talked to him, tried to tell him that there was something on the loose, but I didn’t tell him everything. What could I say, that I’d seen the bogeyman?”

  “So instead you called me.”

  “It took some persuading for the town council to agree to bring you here, but they gave in. There have been other sightings you see; rumors were spreading.”

  “What kind of rumors?”

  “The qalupalik. It’s an old Inuit legend about a monster that lives in the water and sings to lure people close to it.”

  “That’s what you think you saw?”

  “I don’t know.” Hayley shook her head. “But I am certain that it wasn’t anything natural, and it’s still out there, still killing.”

  “Has Wilder made any progress tracking the creature?”

  “No, and he won’t either. He thinks it’s a bear or some such thing.” Hayley looked pale, as if the memory of that night still haunted her. “This beast needs to be stopped, Mr. Decker. You need to kill it.”

  Decker nodded. “That’s not going to be an easy task with Wilder shutting me out.”

  “I know, but there is nothing I can do about that. The sheriff’s office runs autonomously. You are going to have to work around him.”

  “Understood. I’ll do my best to stay out of his way,” Decker said. “However, there’s one thing…”

  “Yes?”

  “It would be useful if I had access to a firearm, just in case I come across your beast. I’d hate to run into whatever is killing people without any way to defend myself.”

  “That much I can do.” Hayley tore a piece of paper from a yellow legal pad on her desk and scribbled a name on it. “Go and see Verne Nolan at the tackle and bait shop near the docks. He’s a good guy. He’ll set you up.”

  “Will do.” Decker stood up.

  “I’ll let him know you are coming and tell him the town will foot the bill.”

  ”Thanks.” Decker turned to leave. He was about to walk through the door when Hayley spoke up again.

  “John?” she said, using his name for the first time that afternoon.

  “Yes?” Decker glanced back over his shoulder.

  “Be careful.” Hayley looked worried. “I’d like to keep the body bags to a minimum.”

  “Me too,” Decker replied, and then he was through the door and walking toward the elevator.

  23

  The tackle and bait store stood on a barren patch of land near the docks. Behind it, a smattering of fishing boats bobbed on their moorings, safe inside the bay, and beyond that the wide expanse of the ocean disappeared to a cloud filled horizon. The battered wooden hut looked like it might collapse at any moment, but given its location, the building had stood up to more than its fair share of storms over the years. Atop the structure, fixed to the roof, a large rectangular sign announced the name of the place, and underneath, in smaller lettering the words, BAIT – RODS - GUNS.

  It was getting late already, well past six o’clock, when Decker arrived, and he expected the store to be closed, but to his surpri
se the sign hanging on the door stated that they were open until 9 P.M., even though there wasn’t a soul in sight. Decker wondered how much business the shop did. He suspected it made most of its money catering to tourists who came up to Alaska during the summer months to fish.

  He entered and immediately noticed the musky, odorous smell that permeated the air, something akin to mothballs and rotten fish. Rows of fishing poles lined the walls, along with racks of lure and bait. Carousels housing hooks and other fishing odds and ends were packed so tight into the small space that it was hard to maneuver. No spare inch of floor was wasted. Along the back wall, behind a counter with a glass front and worn wooden top, hung several harpoon guns of various sizes. Behind the counter sat a man of at least fifty, with a face that looked like it was chiseled from stone. He watched Decker approach with eyes that shone bright and blue under a heavy brow.

  “You must be John Decker.” The man’s voice was deep and rich.

  “My reputation precedes me.” Decker approached the counter, weaving around a couple of tubs marked live bait.

  “Hayley said you’d be by. I’m Verne.” He leaned on the counter on arms twice as thick as Decker’s. A tattoo poked out from under his sleeve, an eagle atop a globe with words the Semper Fidelis underneath.

  Decker eyed the tattoo. “Marine, huh?”

  “Long time ago,” Verne said. “You serve?”

  “No,” Decker said.

  “I hear you’re in the market for a gun.”

  “You heard right.” Decker’s eyes dropped to the glass counter, to the rows of firearms lined up within. “And I hear you’re the man to talk to.”

  “Damn straight. If I don’t have it, it ain’t legal.”

  “Good to know.” Decker was sure that Verne had some weapons of the illegal variety too, but of course he wasn’t going to come out and say so.

  “So what can I get you?”

  “A pistol. Something small that I can keep close.”

  “That’s an easy one.” Verne reached into the glass case and came up with a snub nosed black gun. “This here is the Glock 27. It’s got some weight and won’t raise too many eyebrows when you stash it about your person.” He reached in again and came up with a second pistol. “This one is the Kahr PM9. It comes in at a little under 14 ounces, so it won’t weigh you down. If I had my choice these would be the top two.”

  “What about night sights?” Decker asked. He hoped he wouldn’t need the gun, but if he did he wanted to cover all his bases.

  “Sure. I can fit them to either gun.”

  “Good to know.” Decker examined the guns, weighing them in his hands. He liked the feel of the PM9, but he was more accustomed to the Glock, so he motioned toward that one in the end. “I’ll take the Glock with night sights.”

  “Good choice. You’ll be wanting ammo, I’m sure. One box do you?”

  “For now.” Decker nodded. He went to pick up the Glock.

  Verne reached out and placed a hand on the pistol, preventing Decker from lifting it. “I’m not going to regret this, am I?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Technically it’s illegal to sell this gun to you, being that you’re not from around these parts, and I don’t want to wind up on the wrong end of any federal charges.”

  “I’ll be careful, I promise,” Decker said. “Besides, I’m not buying it, the town is.”

  “Good point.” Verne lifted his hand. “Now how about I get you those night sights.”

  24

  Verne Nolan leaned on the counter and watched Decker leave. He had wondered how long it would take the man to show up looking for a gun. Decker was something of a celebrity in Shackleton ever since the last town council meeting when the girl that ran the local paper, Mina, showed up and suggested they bring him in.

  Monster hunter.

  That was the term she used to describe him. Decker didn’t look much like a monster hunter, even though Verne had no idea what such a person would look like.

  It was crazy. They already had a perfectly good sheriff, so why bother spending money on some guy that couldn’t even keep his own job down south? The whole town was nuts, talking about the Qalupalik like it was a real living thing. Verne didn’t believe in fairy tales, and that was exactly what the Qalupalik was – a bedtime story to scare children.

  Even so, there was no denying that the recent deaths had worked folk up into a panic, which probably explained their eagerness to jump on the John Decker bandwagon. People were funny like that. One little thing they couldn’t understand, or deal with, and they would clutch at anything that might offer some salvation, no matter how ridiculous it was.

  Verne shook his head and rubbed his eyes, forcing back a yawn. He hadn’t slept much the night before. He fought the temptation to close early, climb up the stairs to the apartment above the store and flop down on the bed. A few weeks ago he might have done just that, but not now. The one good thing that had come out of the whole situation was his bottom line. Fear and paranoia were great for gun sales, and right now there was no shortage of either in Shackleton.

  Verne chuckled to himself and bent under the counter, to the mini-fridge where he kept bottles of iced coffee. He reached in and snagged one, then twisted the top off. He was about to lift the bottle to his lips when the door opened, the bell above jangling to let him know there was a customer. He placed the bottle on the counter and watched as a burly fisherman entered the store. The man ignored the tackle and rods, the bait, and other fishing supplies, and walked up to the counter. He peered down at the row of handguns in the display case, his breath fogging the glass.

  Verne waited, watching the man examine the firearms. Let him take his time. When he made up his mind, Verne would be there, ready to sell another gun, and a little more protection against the fearsome Qalupalik.

  25

  Decker walked through town, ignoring the cold drizzle that hung in the air. He felt better now that he had a gun.

  He had nothing to do until the meeting with Mina at midnight, and so far he hadn’t talked to anyone about the killings. Perhaps it was time for a little investigative work. Up ahead was the bar he’d seen the day before, when Hayley drove him to the towers, and it seemed like a perfect place to do a little digging. Besides, he was thirsty, and a cold beer would go down well.

  He reached the barroom door and pulled it open, happy to find that the temperature inside the bar was considerably warmer than the temperature outside. Shaking off the raindrops from his coat, Decker approached the bar, careful to keep the package with the gun inside hidden from view.

  “Hello there.” The bartender was a jolly man with a bright red face and a head as bald as they came. “What can I get you?”

  “Beer.” Decker glanced around. The bar was small, with a Wurlitzer jukebox standing in one corner, and a pinball machine in the other. A darts board hung on the wall opposite the jukebox. The place was dark and dingy, but it had the feel of a local watering hole about it, somewhere welcoming and friendly.

  “Draught or bottle?” The bartender asked.

  “Draught, please.” Decker watched two burly men playing darts, a group of their friends laughing and hollering with each throw.

  “That’ll be five dollars even.”

  Decker reached into his pocket and handed the bartender a ten. He was still watching for his change when he was approached by one of the men watching the darts game.

  “You’re that guy the town council brought in, aren’t you?” The man’s accent was thick.

  “Yes.” Decker turned in the direction of the voice. “John Decker.”

  “Decker, that’s it. The monster hunter.” The man laughed, a deep rumble that shook his frame. “I’m Clint.”

  “Pleased to meet you Clint. I take it you know Mina.”

  “Huh?”

  “Mina, the girl that runs the town paper.” Decker took a sip of his beer.

  “Never met her face to face. We tend to keep to ourselves up here, you know
.” He slapped Decker on the back. “She was talking at the meeting when we decided to bring you in. Cute girl. She thought you would be able to catch whatever is attacking folk around here.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Decker said. “Speaking of that, what do you think is killing people?”

  “Me?” Clint scratched his head. “I couldn’t rightly say. Must be some sort of animal, I bet.”

  “Like the Qalupalik?” Decker studied the other man’s face for any sign of a reaction. There was none.

  “I see you’ve been listening to the stories.”

  “That name has been coming up a lot.”

  “People take their superstitions seriously around here.”

  “And you?” Decker pressed. “Do you take the Qalupalik seriously?”

  “You might think me odd, but yes, I do.” Clint leaned on the bar. “I grew up in this town. My father was a fisherman, and his father before him, and let me tell you, I’ve seen some strange things in my time. This place isn’t like the big city. There are truths here that most folk don’t want to admit.”

  “But a monster dragging people off?” Decker said. “Isn’t it more likely to be a bear?”

  “You don’t believe in monsters?”

  “I believe in monsters,” Decker said. “I just think that the easiest explanation is often the right one.”

  “Bears don’t kill like this thing does.” Clint shuddered. “The Qalupalik has been a part of life around here for centuries. It goes way back to the Inuit that lived on these shores. A story doesn’t last that long unless there’s a truth to it, Mr. Decker.”

  “And what do the others think?” Decker nodded toward the group playing darts. “Do they believe?”

  “Some do.” Clint nodded. “Others like to pretend they don’t, but deep down, in their hearts, they know what is out there. Now there are some, newer transplants to our town, that scoff at the legends.”

  “Is Sheriff Wilder one of those people?”