Dale turned a hopeless gaze on them. “I don’t know. Run, I guess.”
What a fine little mess. If Maggie was pissed before, she would be in the market for a divorce lawyer when she heard that they might have to skip town. It was funny. Fifteen minutes ago the whole world seemed hinged on his strange connection to the dogs. Now all that mattered was keeping his family safe.
“Who do you think the Pummels really are?” Casper asked.
“You’re the high ranking military man here,” Dale said. “You’d know better than me. I’m just a beat cop.”
Patrick stood up and paced. “Judging from the heat their guards were packing, I’m guessing their not the 4-H fair committee.” He stopped mid-step as a thought occurred to him. “Is Felton being guarded at the hospital?”
“This isn’t a movie,” Dale said. “He was just stabbed. Other than doctors and nurses looking out for him, he’s on his own.”
“Could the Pummels get to him? I mean, is there a chance that someone could snuff him right there in the hospital bed?”
“I guess we can’t rule that out,” Dale said. “But there’s nothing we can do about that. It’s not like we can post a round the clock vigil at his door. The only thing to do now is wait it out.”
Dale agreed to keep them posted on Felton so long as Casper and Patrick agreed to stay away from St. Francis and the Pummels. Dale left to go back to his cruiser, opting to walk around the garage instead of going through the house. He looked down into the barberry bushes planted beside the deck, then stopped.
“Looks like your dogs have struck again. There’s a dead possum and a dead cat over here.”
Investigating
They sat around the circular ebony table in the sunlit kitchen of Gordy and Nan’s apartment. They each had their own apartment, guards included, on the second floor of the complex, but Art couldn’t help but notice how much larger of a space Gordy and Nan had compared to the rest of them.
“So none of you know who Mr. Felton was with last night?” Detective Farmer asked. He was a short, balding man, with a gut that made him look like he’d swallowed a basketball. His suit was out of date, ill-fitting and wrinkled.
“No, I’m sorry we don’t.” Nan wore a tight fitting dress pulled to her upper thighs. She made sure to sit far enough back so that Farmer could get a good eye full of her legs, which she crossed and uncrossed several times. The dress was also low cut, serving up a heaping helping of cleavage to distract and jumble the minds of all men.
“He’s been so distant lately,” Nan added.
“How do you mean?”
“Sly’s been very withdrawn,” Gordy said. “He’s been shying away from the staff, neglecting the cats, and just seemed frazzled of late. I assumed that he was depressed because of the recent disappearances in town.”
“Could you elaborate?” Farmer scribbled in his notebook while sneaking peeks at Nan’s breasts.
Nan gave a flirty smile and re-crossed her legs. “Sly has been obsessed with the disappearances in town; he’s been collecting news clippings, constantly watching the news, things like that.”
Farmer raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He scribbled some more in his notebook then placed it in his jacket pocket. “I think that’s enough for now. I’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you so much.” Nan reached into her purse, pulled out a thick envelope and slid it across the table to Farmer. “We appreciate you doing what you can to preserve the reputation of St. Francis.”
Farmer picked up the envelope then cast a questioning eye across the table.
“It was a long drive for you,” Gordy said. “With prices being so high these days, the least we could do is buy your gas.”
Farmer tucked the envelope into his jacket without another word. He turned and exited in silence. When Farmer was back in his car and headed for the gate, Art turned and kicked over a chair.
“What’s wrong with you?” Gordy righted the chair and slid it into place.
“I can’t believe we’re paying that dick off. Why do we have to play all of these stupid games?”
Nan gave him a look as if he were a petulant child. “We can’t kill everyone. Sometimes money can do what bullets can’t.”
Gordy had a look of pity on his face. Art wondered what Gordy’s face would look like if he knew that Nan was fucking both of them . . . and in more ways than one. “Let’s go downstairs and wait for Wexxel and Coining.”
Two hours later Wexxel and Coining returned from their search for Bobby Bastion covered in brambles and briar scratches. Gordy called a meeting to discuss how they were going to proceed. Art hated all of the waiting and scheming. His older brother was famous for it. Gordy would draw a detailed outline to wipe his ass. Art knew how to handle this mess. He didn’t need a meeting. It was simple. Kill Sly before he woke up and blabbed. Kill the Marine and his family. After that the cop and the black giant would clam right up. And if not, then kill them, too.
“All right,” Gordy said. “It’s time for rumor control. Here’s what we know.
“Last night Sly Felton and Bobby Bastion let Penelope out of her cage. While she mauled Gardner, they escaped out of the back gate. Apparently Bobby stabbed Sly then made off through the woods. Unfortunately the cat escaped before we could secure the gate.”
Nan stood up. “Felton is still alive. The cop that’s been tailing us, Wicket, was able to get to Sly before we could. We are assuming at this point that McTreaty and Brown are aware of Sly’s situation.” She turned to Wexxel. “Tell us what you have to report.”
Wexxel cleared his throat a few times, and Coining looked at him as if relieved it wasn’t him that had to speak. “We picked up Bastion’s trail from where he stabbed Felton. It was a pretty easy track. I don’t think Bobby’s ever been in the woods before. We followed the trail to a log cabin not far from here. The cabin is a mess. Trash everywhere. We made a sweep, but found nothing unusual until we came to the loft bedroom.”
When Wexxel didn’t start talking again, Art spoke up. “Did you find Bobby or not?
Wexxel considered his answer for a moment longer. “I believe so.”
Art clenched his jaw. He didn’t have time for twenty questions. “You’re gonna have to be more clear.”
Wexxel sat straight. His face hardened, but his eyes still seemed distant. “We found Bobby’s clothes, all shredded like he’d been through a wood-chipper. There was some hair and a few of his gold fillings, but the rest was just a pile of dust or ash.” Wexxel looked over at Coining hoping for some confirmation.
Art had never seen Coining look so uncomfortable. He scanned each face and a shadow of fear hid behind his eyes. “It looked like someone had cremated him and dumped the ashes back in his ripped up clothes. We search all over and couldn’t find any signs of a fire.”
“Anything else?” Gordy didn’t seem too impressed, but he hadn’t been the one to find the remains of Sarah Chang.
“There were two more piles of dust,” Wexxel said. “One was in another set of shredded clothes. The other was on the bed. Also, there were . . . things around the bed.”
Nan’s face remained stolid and impossible to read. “What kind of things?”
Coining shook his head. “I don’t know. They looked like when a snake sheds its skin, only there was a lot of it.”
Art rubbed his face. “So, we don’t know if Bobby is dead or alive and there may or may not be a giant snake running around.”
“Enough,” Gordy said to Art. “All right, here are our issues. Sly’s not talking right now, but if he wakes up we’ve got major trouble. We have to figure out how to handle the Three Musketeers. I don’t think they know anything, but I don’t like loose ends. Then there is Penelope. If she mauls someone we won’t be able to keep the snoops away no matter how much we bribe.”
“I think the cat is low on the priority list,” Wexxel said. “We can always hunt her down later. Right now we need to make sure Felton doesn’t wake up. It would be tough for on
e of us to walk in and snuff him, but we could contract it out. Give the hitter Felton’s room number. Problem solved.”
Gordy nodded his approval. “Good idea. Nan you handle that. We need someone fast, though.”
She smiled. “I know just the person.”
“What about the other three?” Coining asked.
“I have an idea,” Art said. The group turned to look at him and he loved that all eyes were on him. He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “It seems old houses, like the one the Marine lives in, burn down so quickly. Most times so fast no one has a chance to get back out. If you cook the Marine and his family while they sleep, then Wicket and McTreaty will play ball.”
No one spoke. Art found it funny that a room full of trained killers looked at him as though he were crazy.
Nan broke the silence. “And what if they don’t play ball? What if it just rouses their anger and they retaliate?”
He knew Nan would object to his idea while in public—she always did—but when they were alone she would let her other face show and would tear into him like a sex-starved teen. She was such a hypocrite. Killing her was going to be so much fun.
“Then let’s get them all together and make a clean sweep of it,” Art said. As long as the Marine died, Art didn’t really care what happened to the others. The Marine had got the jump on him and laid that dime-store blade to his throat. But when the Marine died listening to the screams of his own children, Art would have the last laugh. He looked to his brother.
A small speck of admiration flashed in Gordy’s eyes. “Do you think you can handle the fire?”
Art smiled. “Absolutely.” He only wished he could take more time. Make the Marine watch while he worked on his wife and kids. That would be heaven. “When do you want me to roll?”
“Soon. Let’s wait until Nan’s man is ready to take Felton. Then we’ll unleash hell on all of them. By this time next week we should be back up and running. Until then I want St. Francis closed. Until we can confirm it, we are going to assume Bobby Bastion is still alive.”
“What about that log cabin?” Nan asked. “If those are Bobby’s remains, someone might happen across them and trace him back to us.”
“I can handle that,” Art said. The idea came to him in an instant. “I’ll go out there and burn the place down.”
Nan scowled at him. “Are you adding pyromania to your repertoire?”
“If the cops think an arsonist is in town that’s one less finger pointed at us when the Marine’s house goes up in flames.”
“Do you want to bring someone along?” Gordy asked.
“Nah, I got this.”
“Okay, but stay out of sight. This will all be pointless if you’re spotted.” Gordy smiled at him. “Watch your back, little brother.”
* * *
An hour later Art pulled down the long driveway connecting the road to the log cabin. Normally he wouldn’t park so close during daylight hours, but this place was secluded; there were no close neighbors and the cabin was hidden from the main road by the forest. It was possible that this place would burn straight to ashes and no one would notice for days.
Art grabbed a duffle bag from the floorboard and hoisted it over his shoulder. The glass bottles within clanked together causing the birds to cease their singing for a moment. Though the cabin had been well maintained, as had the yard, the building seemed dark and drab—as lifeless as a hollowed out jack-o-lantern.
Art stepped up onto the front porch, set his bag down and unzipped it. He inspected the eight Molotov cocktails, ensuring none were cracked or leaking. He would only need one or two to burn down the cabin; the rest were for the Marine’s house.
Art kicked in the front door. No one screamed; no one ran for cover. The cabin was empty.
Wexxel and Coining hadn’t been kidding when they said someone had trashed the place. And from the look of things, they had taken their time. Every piece of furniture was demolished; bookshelves were toppled and the refrigerator stood open showcasing bits of rotten food. Art moved through the cabin like a shadow and the farther he went, the more he was overcome by an eerie foreboding. He stood at the bottom of the stairs looking upward. He wanted to see the skins surrounding the bed; he wanted to run his fingers though the piles of dust. He had never been a man to spook easily, yet his flesh crawled with goose bumps while the hairs on his neck danced. He couldn’t explain why, but he thought of a dark cave full of man-eating beasts.
He needed to hurry. The longer he lingered the more he chanced being spotted, but he was locked in place by the twin shackles of curiosity and dread. He didn’t like this at all. He was a man of action, not fear. What would the others (especially Gordy) think if they witnessed him staring up into the darkness like a sniveling child?
Art reached behind him and retrieved his pistol from the holster nestled in the back of his pants. The cold steel against his skin calmed his turbulent nerves. He didn’t fear death. He was death.
He cringed when the first stair creaked under his foot, but he pressed upward, skipping every other step, until he stood at the bedroom door. The door was slightly ajar. Art stood with his ear close to the crack, listening. If something was stirring within he couldn’t hear it.
He felt childish and stupid. He didn’t believe in God or the devil. Nor did he believe that there were any aliens, ghosts, Bigfoot, vampires, zombies or werewolves. Oh, there were monsters in the world, but he was one of them. What was he so afraid of?
Art pushed open the door and the stench of decay washed over him. Wexxel and Coining hadn’t been lying or even embellishing. The room was just as they described. He stooped down to examine the two piles of shredded clothing, both filled with a heavy, grainy dust and topped with a clump of hair. He recognized Bobby’s clothes and, with a bit of poking, he uncovered the gold fillings. He checked the other set of clothes, found a wallet, and discovered a driver’s license bearing a name and face that was familiar to him. The second pile of dust had once been Clifton Arnold, the first of several missing persons in Shadeland and the man he had been searching for when Sarah Chang vanished.
How interesting. Would a search of the cabin result in the remains of the other missing persons?
A strange noise startled him to his feet. He held his pistol in both hands, turning in stiff pivots to search the room. He wasn’t sure why, but the sound had triggered an instant terror in him. Something from the primal nature of early man had awoken in him, bringing with it the instinctual fear of an animal that was easily preyed upon.
A thought occurred to him. Had he stumbled upon Penelope’s hiding spot? He had never felt such panic before in the presence of any of the cats at St. Francis, but that was when there was a fence separating them.
The sunlight filtering through the blowing trees sent shadows scurrying across the room. Art strained to detect any motion. The noise hadn’t sounded like any animal he had heard before. In fact, it didn’t even sound natural. It seemed like an insect was trying to talk.
A large insect, at that.
He caught movement from the corner of his eye. Without thought, Art turned and fired three shots. The gun’s acrid smoke burned his nostrils. His ears rang from the reports and his hands trembled. Art looked down on his kill and was thankful no one had been here to witness him lose his cool. Though no one would dare openly laugh at him for being so startled by a raccoon, it would make him the favorite joke among the guards.
Art went back downstairs, never giving the cabin’s interior a second glace. He moved onto the front porch, put his gun away, and reached into his front pocket for his lighter. He gave it a couple of flicks and the tiny flame sprang to life. He reached down to grab his duffle bag, intending to carry it away from the cabin before setting it ablaze, but a terrible pain erupted in his forearm.
Art jerked his arm back and looked down at the dime-size hole oozing blood just above his wrist. Oh my god, I’ve been shot. But he had heard no gun fired. The pain spread i
nto his chest, shocking his lungs before it spilled down into his legs, unhinging his knees.
Art struggled for breath, but could gain no more than a thimble full of air. His insides burned like molten lead. A terrible tremor overtook him, rattling his head against the wooden boards of the porch. Through no control of his own, his eyes fell upon the duffle bag full of accelerants. The air above the bag rippled and something unimaginable materialized out of thin air.
Art wanted to scream, to turn his head away. But he was a prisoner within his own useless body. The monstrous insect crawled onto his chest, its black eyes passing close to his own. The abominable creature exposed its sharp fangs and from its rancid mouth came the unearthly mechanical chirping.
When Gordy would later send someone to search for his brother, all that remained of Art was his duffle bag and a single shoe, snagged in a briar bush.
Lines in the Fog
Rebecca Reid went to the bay window at the front of her house, parted the curtains and used her binoculars to better see the house across the street.
“Good for nothing snobs,” she muttered to herself. “Think just because they have money that makes them better than me.”
She watched those over-privileged Brown children running around the big house chasing those cat-murdering flea-bags. Oh how she wished she still had that rifle her husband Ted used to own. It’d be just like that duck game at the county fair. But she remembered the day she had to pawn the rifle—back when the bills had really started raining in—and her hatred swelled.
“Bet they never had to pawn a single trinket,” she mumbled. “They ain’t never seen a hard day. Never had debt collectors crawling up their ass.”
Rebecca put down her binoculars long enough to light up another cigarette. Damn things were getting outrageous. Her two-carton-a-day habit was starting to wear on her pocket book. If things kept going this way she might end up spending the winter with no heat. She just knew those rich assholes were sitting over there, drinking fine wine out of crystal glasses, laughing at how an old widow woman like her was going to freeze this winter just because she liked an occasional smoke.
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