Demon Accords 10: Rogues

by John Conroe

  “Just as soon as these three replace their chamber rounds with these extra silver ones I got in my pocket,” Shorty said. Sergeant Thompson was the only man not carrying a 12-gauge shotgun.

  As quick as they arrived, the five men moved back out of the deep forest and back to the vehicles. White clouds of frozen breath puffed from the seriously spooked men. All of them were thoroughly experienced. All of them hovered on the edge of true terror at the thought of what might be lurking in the darkness just out of sight, their ancestral instincts screaming danger.

  Nothing jumped out at them. The vehicles started smoothly, and then they were gone.

  “Where the hell did you get silver buckshot, Short?” Buck asked as they bounced down the trail.

  “Made ‘em up right after that Washington shit. Melted down a bunch of coins and dropped ‘em through a screen into a bucket of cold water. Silver don’t cast bullets for shit, too damned finicky, temperature-wise. Need special molds and shit. Seen some companies are making full-fledged silver ammo, though. You’re gonna need to order up some of that, Buck.”

  “That’s the very least of what I’ve got to do,” Sergeant Thompson said. “I think I’ve got to make a whole bunch of phone calls first.”

  “Who do you call for shit like this?” Shorty asked.

  “Well, Sheriff Grable in Dover-Foxcroft first. Then maybe some guys I know in New York. Figured I’d start with them.”

  “They know about werewolves in the crabby Apple?” Short asked.

  “The guys I’m thinking of do, or at least they say they do. We’ll see,” Buck said, already making plans to return at first light.

  Chapter 1

  Thirty-six hours later

  The Jeep alone would have drawn attention. A late model four-door Wrangler Unlimited Rubicon dressed with top of the line off-road accessories: a winch, big knobby tires, extra lighting, and a dark aftermarket paint job that the manufacturer called Kevlar Slate.

  In a town whose economic engines had gone mostly quiet, a town just like Fetter, Maine, an expensive rig like that would draw attention. So would the New York plates.

  It made sense then that more than a few pairs of eyes followed its progress down the main road till it stopped in front of the county sheriff’s substation.

  If the Jeep was interesting, the young woman who climbed out of it was even more so. Young and dressed in outdoor gear, she was an attractive brunette, maybe five-seven, perhaps in her early twenties. She was dressed in khaki hiking pants, tan boots, and an electric blue short-sleeve t-shirt that she quickly covered with a light plaid shirt. The plaid shirt was new, a bit loose fitting, yet unable to hide the figure it enclosed. She turned hazel eyes on the substation as her fingers automatically clicked the lock button on her key fob. Hers was now the only locked vehicle on the street. An inch-long scar on her right cheek marred an otherwise unblemished face.

  Looking up the street, she took in the details. Two blocks back was the only gas station, a Mobil with a small, run-down convenience store. Across from that was a bar named the Bitter Bear. Probably a story there. Old houses and the Post Office lay between the gas station and the old storefront now occupied by the sheriff’s substation. Other stores lay empty, the young woman spotting a closed florist, a boarded-up deli and several shuttered restaurants. Looming behind Main Street was a long, high-industrial building that looked barren and empty. Not much else.

  Entering the sheriff’s substation, she found a tiny office, the desk manned by a young woman maybe a half-dozen or so years her senior. Light brown hair and light brown eyes. The woman raised an eyebrow while her eyes scanned the newcomer from head to toe, flicking to the scarred cheek before landing on her eyes.

  “The Sergeant isn’t seeing reporters at this time,” she said, her expression flashing a micro-expression of disdain.

  The newcomer could see a doorway to another office in back, two chairs and a corner of a metal desk visible. Her sensitive ears picked up the sound of the office’s occupant shifting slightly at the receptionist ’s words.

  “I’m not a reporter. I’m here to see a Sergeant Buck Thompson.”

  “He’s pretty busy,” the gatekeeper said, her tone conveying her lack of belief in the non-reporter statement.

  “Could you tell him that Detective Eddie Bellini sends his regards? Asked me to drive up here and pay a call on your sergeant,” she said, eyes on the receptionist, ears on the far office.

  The receptionist frowned, realizing that her initial perception of the situation was off.

  A chair scraped in the back office and then she heard the sound of boots hitting the floor. Both women looked back at the doorway as a large male figure filled the frame.

  “Bellini sent you?”

  The young woman studied the sergeant, taking in his height, shoulder width, and bushy black beard in a practiced glance. Hmm, not bad. No wonder little miss secretary is territorial, she mused. Not her type exactly, but not bad on the eyes. In the past, he might have been of more interest, but not now. Still, better then a fat, balding, near-retirement has-been.

  “Nice to meet you too, Sergeant Thompson. Lisa Renault. Eddie didn’t send me. He said you had a problem up here… an unusual kind of problem. Suggested it might be my kind of problem,” she said, letting his condescension roll off her.

  Now he was frowning, which looked a bit threatening, what with the beard and the dark eyes. Part of her took it for aggression. That part knew how to handle aggression. The rest of her reined the first part back. She gave herself a mental pat on the back for maintaining her calm. What was that called? Oh yeah. Positive reinforcement.

  For his part, the Sergeant saw an attractive young woman whose casual stance implied complete confidence. He revised the attractive bit to very attractive even as his eyes picked out other details, including the scar. Her plaid shirt looked brand new, but her khaki pants were comfortably worn. And on closer inspection, he noted the pants were more covert tactical than outdoorsy, with reinforced knees and concealed cargo pockets. In fact, he would bet money he had seen the same model pants in one of his law enforcement catalogues.

  Likewise, her boots were desert-toned combat models instead of name-brand hikers. The clothes weren’t tight, but in the few places they clung, they outlined a fit, muscular physique that made him wonder how she would look in a bikini. Brown hair in a ponytail and amused hazel eyes studied him right back. Oddly, she wasn’t wearing a belt. He’d have pegged her for definite law enforcement if she’d been wearing a belt.

  “Cop?” he asked.

  “Consultant,” she answered.

  “ID,” he requested.

  Now she frowned, but without answering pulled a plastic driver’s license from a small bundle of cash and credit cards that came from her front pocket. Most women carried a purse and internal wallet. Women cops would have had a credential case.

  “I’m going to call Eddie,” the young sergeant said.

  “Knock yourself out,” Lisa Renault said. He turned back into his office and simultaneously heard the front door shut. Spinning around, he was just fast enough to see the young woman walking past the window in the direction of the Mobil station. A new model Jeep was sitting at the curb. He looked at Claire, but she just shrugged and rolled her eyes, so he went back into his office to call his NYPD contact. His gut had wanted him to go rushing out the front door in suspicion.

  “Bellini, NYPD,” a voice he recognized from his military days answered.

  “Ziti, it’s Thompson.”

  “The Big Buck himself? How’s your problem going?”

  “You sent me a girl named Renault to handle my, er, problem?”

  “Renault? Oh. She’s there already? Must have headed right up,” Bellini said.

  “What’s her story?”

  “Nope. You asked for an expert on werewolves and I was able to get you the one we rely on. And she got up there in record time. You don’t get more than that, Buck. Her story is her own, and I ain’t gonna be
the one to tell it,” the New York cop said. His voice held a measure of respect and perhaps just a tiny bit of trepidation, at least at the last sentence.

  “Eddie, this crime scene was like nothing I’ve ever seen. I gotta know if this girl is up for it,” Thompson said.

  “Just worry about yourself, Buck. Don’t be fooled by the good looks and don’t go trying to impress her or protect her, and for God’s sakes, don’t be hitting on her, wife or no wife. She’s not like anyone you’ve ever met, but she’s exactly the one for your problem. Now, I gotta go. The full moon’s got the wackos coming out of the woodwork. The regular wackos. Not the furry kind,” Bellini said.

  “All right, Ziti. Thanks, I guess.”

  “ You guess? Shit, Buck, you owe me big for this one. Like moose lottery big, get it?”

  “Yeah, I’ll see what I can do to draw a tag.”

  “Hmpf. Like I don’t believe you can’t get a moose tag anytime you want. It’s me you’re talking to, Buck. I know what a wheeler-dealer you are. But do me and you a favor and treat that young lady with respect. Got it?” the detective said, hanging up without waiting for an answer.

  Buck Thompson had gone through hell with the city-bred Bellini and trusted him implicitly. That said, Morris Alcombe’s death was far outside anything they had faced in the Sandbox, and the young sergeant was having trouble reconciling the death scene with the young woman his old army buddy had sent to help him. Still, there had been a large portion of respect in the detective’s voice when he spoke about her and maybe even the tiniest amount of fear.

  He woke up his computer and typed her name and driver’s license number into the National Crime Information Center site and hit enter. His computer went a little wonky.

  First a photo of a blonde woman a good fifteen years or so older popped up, but the open window instantly closed and then almost as quickly reopened with a picture that matched the young woman outside. Frowning, Buck hit the back button but the damned machine just took him back to the data entry view. He reentered the information and the software delivered him the smiling picture of the brunette he’d just met. The photo looked like it had been taken recently. Like yesterday. And who the hell smiles for a license photo? No matter what he tried, he couldn’t get the blonde picture back.

  Her record was clean and her address matched the license, listing her as a resident of Manhattan. The plastic on her license was hardly scuffed, yet the issue date was over a year ago. Something odd here. Time to go to the source.

  Chapter 2

  Buck found her outside, eating a submarine sandwich, its wrapping paper opened on the hood of her fancy Jeep. She was watching the town but her attention shifted to him as soon as he opened the door. Looked like she was on the second half of a foot-long mixed Italian with all the fixings. The familiar paper bag was from the convenience store-gas station down the road. She wolfed down the last few bites, white teeth flashing, wiped her hands and face with a napkin, and bundled up all the trash. There weren’t any garbage cans nearby, so she tossed the garbage into the back of her Jeep.

  “So, did you check me out?” she asked, still looking at the town.

  He frowned at her choice of words, but her tone had been completely even. “Bellini said you’re the real deal. How do you know him?” he asked, handing her the license.

  “I don’t. Not really. More of an acquaintance, really. He works with Larry Dalton, who I do know,” she said. “So, we going to visit this crime scene or what?”

  He paused, uncertain, which was an abnormal state of mind for him. She just looked at him expectantly. “It’s extremely gruesome,” he finally said.

  “You left the body out there for two days?” she asked, incredulous.

  “No, of course not,” he answered, voice gruff. “But the blood is still everywhere.”

  She studied him for a second. “Bellini said you think it might possibly be a werewolf kill. He asked me to come check it out, implying I’m an expert on werewolves. Let’s assume I’ve seen werewolf kills before, as well as were cat and were bear kills. That I’ve seen entire buildings of torn-apart bodies. Then let’s go ahead and figure I’ll be okay with your single body, which isn’t even there anymore.”

  “Well I don’t like to assume things, but I’ll make an exception in this case,” he said, his eyes narrowed at her a bit. “Were cat? Were bear? Those are real, too?”

  “Yup. Lots of stuff out of myths and legends are real,” she said, hands on hips.

  “That’s just great. You’ll be able to tell which we’re dealing with?” he asked.

  “Yup,” she said. As well as rough age, sex, and individual health issues, she thought. “Let’s get going. I’ll follow you,” she said, walking around to the driver’s side of her Jeep.

  He was silent for a moment, then nodded before disappearing into the substation. A few minutes later, an older Chevy Silverado four-wheel-drive pickup truck with Piscataquis County Sheriff’s Department on the side pulled out from behind the building.

  She followed him for twenty-odd miles of rough road: macadam for the first ten, rugged dirt for the last. He turned off the two-lane road onto a single lane and led her another bouncy, suspension-killing three miles. The extra-long driveway opened into a wide space set on the bank of a small river, with a large main log structure and a number of smaller cabins and outbuildings. She noted a small satellite dish installed on the main lodge. Wi-fi might even be possible, she thought.

  Various vehicles were parked in a roughly even fashion against the side of a metal Quonset hut structure that appeared to be a combination garage and equipment shed.

  Three pickup trucks were parked together: a Toyota Tacoma, a Ford F-150, and a Dodge Ram. Next to the Ram was a Lexus SUV, then a Cadillac Escalade, a black Range Rover, and finally a BMW X5. Parked across the back of all of them was a Chevy Blazer with an attached trailer carrying a fairly new Can-Am ATV. The side of the Blazer was emblazoned with Maine Inland Fisheries and Wildlife – K9 unit.

  “Great, a fricking dog,” Lisa muttered to herself as she parked her Jeep next to the sergeant’s truck. A group of men and a dog came around the side of the Quonset hut at the sound of the two vehicles, a few waving to the deputy and all of them studying the out-of-state Jeep.

  “Hey Buck. Rob showed up with Brady,” a compact man, in camo pants and a long-sleeve t-shirt with Stihl Country across the front, greeted them, his gravely words directed at the sergeant but his eyes on Lisa.

  A tall, lean, sandy-haired young man in a ranger’s uniform nodded at Buck and studied the young woman, a big German Shepard sitting at his side. Two other men in various camouflage clothing trailed behind.

  “Hey Rob, Shorty. This is Lisa Renault. She’s a consultant from New York City who comes highly recommended by one of my old Army buddies,” Buck said.

  Shorty, whose eyes had hardly left the attractive young woman, stepped over and offered his hand, a big smile on his face. “How do ya do? John Kane, ma’am. Most call me Shorty.”

  “Fine, thank you, Shorty,” she said, shaking his hand. He was in mid-shake, staring her in the eyes, whereas most men stared at her chest, when a flicker of a frown crossed his face. Gone as quick as it appeared, he stepped back as the others came closer, his face going blank, smile gone.

  “Lisa, this is Rob Sounder, with Inland Fisheries and Wildlife, and his dog, Brady,” Buck said.

  Rob, expression bland but watchful, nodded at her but stayed where he was. Brady, whose posture had gone alert at the sight of the woman, growled softly.

  The game warden looked down at his dog then back at Lisa, a frown forming. “What are you a consultant on, Miss Renault?”

  “Werewolves, Warden Sounder, and other things that go bump in the night,” she said without a smile.

  Everyone froze, varying degrees of disbelief on their faces. Rob, the game warden, paused, then turned to the sergeant. “Are you crazy, Buck?”

  “You saw the pictures, Rob. Shorty doesn’t think it was a
bear, and I agree with him,” Buck said.

  The other two men moved around the sergeant and game warden as the two officers began arguing quietly, and approached Lisa with smiles.

  “Scott Olsen, ma’am,” the taller of the two said, his eyes flicking to her chest before coming back up to her face. He gave her a sly smile.

  “Pete LeClair, Miss Renault,” the shorter, stockier one said. His eyes also roved up her body from her feet to her face, but it seemed more reflex than Olsen, who’d been deliberate.

  “What do you do here?” she asked.

  “Guides, Lisa. Can I call you Lisa?” Olsen asked, moving a little closer then necessary.

  “Yeah, whatever. Tell me, you fellas notice anything different about game patterns recently or find any strange animal kills?” she asked. She was hoping to shut down their male pattern boldness quick, and who knew, maybe she’d learn some small piece of information along the way.