Forever Man

by Brian Matthews

  Copyright © 2013 by Brian W. Matthews

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  JournalStone books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

  JournalStone

  www.journalstone.com

  www.journal-store.com

  The views expressed in this work are solely those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  ISBN: 978-1-936564-65-1 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-936564-66-8 (ebook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012953064

  Printed in the United States of America

  JournalStone rev. date: February 15, 2013

  Cover Design: Denis Daniel

  Cover Art: M. Wayne Miller

  Edited By: Dr. Michael Collings

  Dedication

  For William S. Matthews, Jr., and Andy Matthews

  The reasons are obvious,

  the sentiment is real.

  Endorsements

  “Matthews’s debut, a supernatural thriller with a small-town ethos, drops a lot of tantalizing hints and brief scares into a story centered around family relationships. The novel wisely focuses on the human ‘distractions’ who would normally be glossed over in favor of the monster, and it presents their emotional pain and fears in a manner that maintains the suspense throughout.”

  — Publishers Weekly

  “Brian Matthews has written an intriguing story enriched with unique characters intertwined within a plot full of mystery, crime and horror. Strap yourself in and hold on tight.”

  — K. Trap Jones, Award winning author of The Sinner

  "With his debut novel, Forever Man, Brian W. Matthews has turned me into a major fan. Layering horror, mystery and an eternal battle between good and evil, Matthews tells his story with assured, luxurious prose and develops his plot with the skill of a master craftsman. Forever Man is a chiller of the first order. I loved it!"

  — Joe McKinney, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of Flesh Eaters and Inheritance

  Check out these titles from JournalStone:

  That Which Should Not Be

  Brett J. Talley

  The Void

  Brett J. Talley

  Vale of Stars

  Sean O’Brien

  Terovolas

  Ed Erdelac

  Twice Shy

  Patrick Freivald

  The Donors

  Jeffrey Wilson

  The Devil of Echo Lake

  Douglas Wynne

  Pazuzu’s Girl

  Rachel Coles

  Available through your local and online bookseller or at

  www.journalstone.com

  Acknowledgements

  My heartfelt thanks go out to the many wonderful people who helped in the creation of this novel. To Diane Clancy, Mark Foley, and Devon Hornberger, who read an earlier version of Forever Man and provided valuable feedback. To Tamra Leclaire, for handing out blunt but honest commentary, and for saving Katie Bethel from backstory limbo and bringing her to the forefront of the story. To my brother, Robert M. Matthews, Sr., for advice on police procedures, and any mistakes in the story are mine. To Christopher Payne and the crew at JournalStone, for believing in me. To Dr. Michael Collings, for his editorial acumen. To Wayne Miller, for the kick-ass cover. And to my good friend and fellow author, Jeff LaSala, who recognized something in me that I couldn’t see in myself. I know it sounds like hyperbole, but without him, you wouldn’t be reading this book.

  My biggest thanks go, of course, to my wife, Jill, and my daughter, Dana. They put up with my crazy hours, my shirking of various household chores (cough, cough), and my state of perpetual distraction as I concentrated on my writing. Without them, I wouldn’t be the person I am today.

  Part One

  The Twilight

  Of

  Our Dreams

  The Greyhound bus shrugged to a stop.

  The old man glanced up from the paperback he’d been reading. Lifting a hand to the window beside him, he rubbed away some of the grime and gazed out at the prosaic landscape of yet another town.

  Bartholomew Owens sighed. After so many cities, the stores and homes and people had run together until everything looked much the same.

  Still…there were bright spots, images of people he’d met and places he’d seen that were so special—so vivid—that they burned like signal fires along the paths of his past, guiding him back to his younger days, days which now seemed so long ago he doubted whether he could even remember them correctly.

  But that was a lie. He could remember them.

  They burned the brightest.

  From the front of the bus, the driver barked out, “Newberry!” and the exit door swung open with a snaky hiss.

  Bart rose to his feet. Stretching, he retrieved his guitar case from the overhead bin, then his canvas duffel. With the bag slung comfortably over his shoulder, he started forward. Even after all these years, he still sat at the back of the bus, a blunt reminder to himself and others of how far the world had come. Besides, he preferred the bumpy isolation of those back seats.

  Easing his way past the more congested front sections, Bart approached the exit and was surprised when the driver held up a hand, clearly trying to get his attention.

  Bart had traveled from Nashville through St. Louis, Chicago and Milwaukee, with his final transfer having occurred less than an hour ago in the town of Escanaba in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. After spending the last twenty-four hours on a bus, he wanted to be on his way.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked, frowning.

  The driver gave a curt shake of his head. “No, but do you mind if I ask you a question?” He was in his late fifties, with broad shoulders, a bull neck and close-cropped white hair. Sitting ram-rod straight in his seat, he had the familiar bearing of a military veteran. The name badge sewn onto his shirt breast pocket said “Frank.”

  “If you can make it quick,” Bart replied. “I’m in kind of a hurry here.”

  “That.” Frank gestured to the insignia stitched into the green canvas of Bart’s kit bag: it was the head of a panther emblazoned upon a golden shield, with the motto ‘Come Out Fighting’ embroidered below. “I noticed it when you got on, but I don’t recognize the unit.”

  With the easy smile, Bart said, “That would be the 761st Tank Battalion—the Black Panthers. They fought with Patton’s Third Army in France.”

  Frank returned the smile. “My granddad served back then. All the men in my family serve.” He glanced back. In a low voice, he added, “My first tour was ‘Nam. Guess I got lucky. All I lost were these.” He held up his other hand. Two of the digits ended in fleshy stumps.

  “Let me guess,” Bart said. “Marines. Infantry?”

  “Damn straight. How ’bout you?”

  “We’re all soldiers in some kind of war.”

  Frank’s brow drew together in a puzzled frown. Then he gave a dismissive shrug. “Anyway, sorry to have kept you. It’s just…I don’t see many people who remember what the word ‘sacrifice’ means.” Frank took a final, meaningful look at the kit bag. “The man who used that, he must’ve been pretty special.”

  Bart stepped onto the sidewalk, the brassy autumn sun warming his face. He thought about the young bo
y who had once owned the kit bag, a boy whose life had been cut short on a rainy battlefield in France.

  “Yes,” he said sadly. “He was.”

  After a respectful nod, Frank closed the door and drove off. The bus diminished into the distance, fading like a neglected memory until it melted away into the shimmering heat reflected off the tarmac.

  Bart turned around. On the other side of the street, a prison sprawled across several acres of land overlooking the town proper. Locked away behind twin electrified fences topped with concertina wire, young black men strolled the exercise yard, played ball, and lagged farther behind the rest of society. Most looked barely out of high school, if they’d finished school at all. The consequential by-products of a culture which had largely forgotten its roots.

  Quit sermonizing, old man. You need to get moving. You’ve got a job to do.

  With a heavy sigh, he turned his back on the prison and hitched the kit bag high on his shoulder. Renewing his grip on the guitar case, he started up the road.

  Kinsey was still a few hours away.

  Prologue

  Friday Night

  Natalie ran faster, her long legs quivering from the surge of adrenalin.

  Looming high over her shoulder, the full moon shone through a canopy of dying leaves, speckling the ground with ghostly coins of pale light. But there wasn’t enough light, not nearly enough. The darkness seemed to bleed into everything, making it difficult for her to find her way.

  She ducked under a thick bough. Paused to catch her breath. Before her, the hiking trail from Black Pine Lake campgrounds unwound like a dark ribbon. Trees crowded the edge of the path, hemming her in, reaching for her….

  Behind her, Jimmy shouted. Called her name. Pleaded with her to stop. When a cry floated up the trail, she grinned savagely. Maybe something got the bastard.

  She took off again. Her white Skechers pounded hard against the ground, propelling her forward. The path stretched east for nearly fifty yards, only to veer north; beyond, the forest waited patiently, a hedge maze of oak, pine, and maple. It may as well have been a brick wall.

  She’d run about half the distance when she heard Jimmy shout her name. Turning, she caught sight of him, not thirty yards back. He had stopped, his lungs heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

  “I said…I was sorry,” Jimmy called out. “I’m not gonna…hurt you.”

  “It’s a little late for apologies!” Natalie yelled, her voice carrying through the still night.

  “Look,” he said, his breath coming in slow, shallow gulps. “Let’s stop running…and talk.

  “About what? How you’re a knuckle-scraping Neanderthal?”

  Jimmy nodded. “Okay, maybe I deserve that. But don’t forget, this is as much your fault as it is mine.”

  “What? Oh my God, you are such an asshole!”

  He took a few cautious steps forward. “You honestly thought we came up here to look at the stars? That maybe I’d spent all this money and would get nothing in return?”

  “All we did was go to a dance together,” Natalie said. “Coming up here wasn’t an invitation for you to—to—”

  With a frustrated cry, she grabbed her necklace and gave it a yank. The chain broke, and she threw the necklace at him. “Screw you and your presents. Just go. Leave me alone. I can find my own way home.”

  Jimmy continued toward her, his large frame silhouetted by the cold, blue moonlight. Now Natalie matched each step with a cautious step backward. Twigs snapped under her feet. She almost tripped on a root.

  When he reached the necklace, Jimmy stooped to picked it up. The thin metal chain dangled from his hand. He stared at it for several seconds, then his gaze found her. He didn’t say a word.

  Natalie started to wonder if Jimmy was more than angry. Maybe he was a little crazy. Her insides did an unpleasant roll into her pelvis. Sweat trickled down her spine like ice melting down a windowpane.

  Girl chased through woods by psycho boyfriend. Didn’t this shit only happen in the movies?

  “Neither of us are leaving,” Jimmy said, shoving the necklace into his pocket. “Not until we work this out.”

  The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. “It’s ‘neither of us is leaving,’ you idiot!”

  Jimmy’s face twisted into a snarl. He charged after her.

  Natalie turned and fled, panic pushing her to run faster. She’d almost reached the curve in the trail when she slipped on a patch of damp autumn leaves. Her feet flew out from under her and she landed hard on her side, her breath exploding from her lungs. Momentum carried her forward. She rolled and rolled and then collided, back first, into a tree. For a moment she lay stunned, trying to draw a breath. Then she felt something wet trickling across her stomach. Looking down—well, sideways—she saw a stick protruding from her abdomen, near the edge of her waist. It was thin, no wider than two of her fingers, the sharp tip extending about four inches beyond a tear in her shirt. Blood seeped from the small wound, coated the bark. Her blood. She tried rolling forward, but the stick pulled at her. She cried out. The world spun as pain wracked her body.

  “Jesus, Nat.”

  Lifting her eyes, she saw Jimmy standing over her, his face pale. “Get help,” she said weakly. “My mom. My dad. Anybody. Just go.”

  He bit his lip. “I can’t…at least, not yet.”

  His words stunned her. “Look at me, Jimmy! I’m stuck to a fucking tree!”

  “I’ll get you out, but only after we get our facts straight.”

  The ground started to tilt. Would he really let her die out here? Glaring at him, she said, “Fine. I’ll agree to whatever you say. Just go get—”

  An ululating howl punctured the night, followed by the sound of breaking wood.

  Jimmy frowned, glaring into the forest. Branches cracked like rifle shots as something crashed toward them.

  “Damn, that sounds big.” His eyes found hers. “Change of plans,” he said, digging into his pocket. “You’re on your own.” Fishing out the necklace, he tossed it at her. “I hear if you play dead, a bear won’t maul you too badly.”

  Panic gripped her. “Wait! You can’t do this! You can’t leave me here!”

  He gave an embarrassed shrug, then started back up the trail.

  Something issued a horrid, otherworldly scream—it sounded like two different animals howling at the same time—and out of the woods burst a dark shape. It headed straight for Jimmy.

  He hadn’t gotten far when it hit him. His shrill cries cut through the night air. There was a wet, tearing sound that reminded Natalie of deer hunting with her dad: it was the sound of someone dressing a kill.

  “Oh god,” Natalie whimpered, turning her head away from the carnage. “Oh god oh god.”

  She had to get off this branch. Her fingers clawed at the dirt, scrambling until they found a wiry root sticking up from the ground. She wrapped her hands around it, gritted her teeth against what was to come, hesitated, swallowed hard, and pulled.

  Her scream soared high above the treetops. The branch slowly scraped through her abdomen. Rough bark lifted from the wood like tiny knives and carved bloody grooves into her flesh. Trembling, tears running down her face, she jerked forward again. The wood pulled, snagged on something deep inside her oh god it HURTS and she threw her head back, sobbing, yanking, yanking…and slid free of the branch.

  Up the trail. A zipper of sharp snaps. Bones breaking. Jimmy’s screams turned to shrieks and then silence.

  Run, she thought. Get away.

  Natalie wedged one hand against the ground and pressed the other over her wounded side. She’d gotten her legs under her when she heard a guttural hiss. Warm, fetid air washed over her face. Her eyes flew up. There, crouched down before her—

  —Natalie opened her mouth to scream. A large, taloned hand clamped over her face. Razor sharp nails punctured her sweaty skin and she was lifted off the ground. She struggled as fangs, wet and dripping with Jimmy’s blood, snapped at the air. The
creature made a whooping sound, like a hyena’s laugh.

  Overwhelmed by pain and fear, dangling helplessly from the creature’s hand, Natalie had one fleeting thought before she passed out: as a little girl, her mother had told her there was no such thing as monsters.

  Oh, Mom, you were so wrong.

  Chapter 1

  Saturday

  It was dawn.

  At least, Izzy Morris thought it was. Trying to judge time from the hazy sunlight filtering in through the blinds was way too much work for…well, for this early in the morning.

  Yawning, she squinted at the alarm clock on her nightstand.

  Oh, yeah. Dawn. And then some.

  With a groan that was part regret, part resentment, Izzy rolled onto her back. She’d wanted to be up by six but had forgotten to set the alarm. Now she was almost half an hour late starting her day.

  She turned her head. Lying beside her, Stanley slept soundly, his face half-buried in a rumpled pillow. Sometime during the night, he’d kicked his foot out from under the comforter, exposing it to the cool air. Once she might have thought it cute, her husband laying there, sleeping, his toes twitching as he dreamed whatever men dreamed. Back then, she might have crawled across the bed and run her fingernail lightly along the arch of his foot. And when he woke, with his sleepy gaze peering down at her, she might have grinned lasciviously, slipped her hand under the covers, tickled another part of him until she had his full attention. Then she’d slowly, teasingly, crawl up his body, sharing touches, sharing kisses, until they were loving their way to lunch.