“What in hell?” E.O. said around the neck of his bottle as he lifted it for a much-needed drink.
He rowed closer still, the gap between himself and the big dog even smaller. Small enough that finally E.O. could see it well enough to make out a few details. It swam steadily toward him, facing him head-on; he could feel the animal’s eyes on him, locked with his. Its face was so black that its light eyes seemed to jump out at him from the drenched fur. He could make out the long muzzle and slightly flattened head, the thick, muscular length of its neck. Its hand when it raised it out of the water to take another stroke toward E.O.
He rocked back in his seat, nearly losing his grip on the paddles. He hadn’t seen that right, he couldn’t have. It was only the dog’s massive paw lifting from the water as it swam. Dogs splashed when they swam, some were quieter than others, but none were totally silent. This dog cut through the water like a shark, moving fluidly and silently, pushing itself through the cold water toward E.O.’s boat.
In his shock, he had frozen, staring with his mouth open. The dog loomed large in his view now and E.O. felt his skin begin to crawl. With the midday sun beating down on him, hot and heavy, booze sweat leaking from every pore, E.O. went cold all over. Seeing it so close told him exactly what he did not believe: what he was looking at was not a dog and it was no more than six feet away from the boat. How had it gotten so close? How had E.O. just sat there and not noticed it moving in?
He snatched up the paddles, whiskey-clumsy fingers slipping on the left and nearly pushing it into the water before he got his fingers wrapped around it. He pushed backward with the paddles then, away from the encroaching beast, but never taking his eyes off of it. The boat slid through the water, away from the strange creature he had called up and encouraged to come to him.
It was so close that E.O. heard it snort as the water from the push backward lapped around its face and some went up its nose. Then it disappeared beneath the serene blue water, leaving only a few ripples to show it had ever been there at all. E.O. looked wildly around, searching the water for the strange black animal, but he didn’t see so much as a shadow below the surface. He wanted to believe he had imagined it; too much sun and whiskey had scrambled his brains and he was hallucinating. The hair on the back of his neck was still standing on end and his fight-or-flight instincts screamed at him to flee. E.O. wasn’t one to ignore such a voice; it had saved his ass back in the war and again many times when he was out in the swamps, above or below the murky water. If he hadn’t listened to that voice before then he’d be gator food right now instead of sitting in his boat like an old fool.
Despite the protests of his shoulder joints, E.O. rowed around, turning the boat to face the shore where the path was. His four-wheeler sat waiting for him at the end and he wanted nothing more than to be on the back of that rattletrap old piece of shit, headed back home. He would do the rest of his day’s drinking indoors where it was safe, by God. Much as he hated it, E.O. didn’t think he’d be coming back down to the gravel pit anytime soon either.
He got the boat pointed toward the right shore and that was when something scraped the bottom hard enough to rock him to and fro. E.O. gripped the paddles tighter and great heavens, he wished for a motor on the boat more fervently than ever. If he had a motor all he would have needed to do was kick it to life and whatever was under him (he knew what it was, yes, yes he did) would be so much chum once he gave it the gas and moved forward.
There was no motor though and his boat rocked again, harder. E.O. gritted his teeth and rowed forward, trying to out-pace the thing under the water. It would have to come up for air soon and when it did, it would be right beside him if he tarried too damn long. He had to move his wrinkly old ass and he had to move it fast.
He made it about eight feet before something came up out of the water and grabbed the side of his boat. E.O. stared in horror at the hairy hand gripping the boat’s edge, water streaming from the ends of its fingers, painting its black claws so glossy they looked like polished obsidian. A second later, another hand joined and that same black head broke the surface. E.O. didn’t think, didn’t hesitate; he brought one of the paddles down on the thing’s hand then swung at its head and caught it hard right across the jaw. It snarled and snapped its huge teeth at the paddle, but it didn’t let go of the boat. E.O. saw its impossible fingers tighten their grip. The boat rocked again as he drew back to take another swing and the monster heaved itself up out of the gravel pit and began to scramble into the boat with him.
The blow caught the thing across its broad shoulders, muscles rippling beneath its dripping fur. It did not faze the creature other than to make it snarl again. The growl rasped low in the back of its throat and bubbled up over teeth that gleamed like ivory blades in its mouth. Water heaved and splashed noisily as it climbed up into the boat. It seemed to go on forever, one huge slab of muscle, fur and fangs. Nothing built that way, so large and powerful, had ever been created to do good or be peaceful. Such a thing was born and bred for maximum lethality.
Years ago, E.O. had seen a picture in a book; an old woodcut of a monstrous wolf-headed beast, hand raised and fingers curled to strike down and tear at something. A spear had been jutting from its hulking shoulder. A young boy’s broken body had been clenched in its powerful jaws.
E.O. looked at the thing streaming water as it threw a leg over the side of the boat to help boost itself up and he saw that picture in his mind again. A fantastic creature pulled from the imagination of a million fevered Dark Age minds had stepped into the 21st century on this bright spring day like a vision straight from Hell.
It was nearly in the boat and despite E.O.’s continued swings at its head and shoulders, it wasn’t backing down. He swung again anyway, mind and reflexes on autopilot that shuddered to a stop the second it caught the paddle and jerked it out of his grasp. The paddle sailed over the side of the boat and splashed down in the water as the thing turned to face him, mouth open, tongue red as a bloody rag in its mouth. It bellowed at him, the sound loud and vicious, caught somewhere between the enraged scream of an animal and the war cry of a man.
Then E.O.’s mind switched gears back to flight and he dove over the side of the boat without another thought. The water wasn’t much safer, but at least that thing wasn’t in there with him. He bobbed on the surface, spluttering as he came up from the freezing blue and blinked water from his eyes. The monster was crouched in the boat, hands dangling between its knees like a man surveying a project that needed undertaking. It was panting softly, that red-red tongue dangling from its mouth.
It chuffed at E.O., Where do you think you’re going, buddy?
E.O. turned and began to swim away.
In the back of his mind he knew there was nowhere to go, but he had to try. He’d always been a strong swimmer, his mama used to say he ought to have been born with fins. All he could hope was that he was a stronger swimmer than the leviathan in the boat behind him. He pulled himself through the water, the rhythm of swimming as natural to him as breathing. Behind him there came the sound of claws digging into metal with a tortured shriek followed by a splash, the wake of which rocked over E.O., small waves lapping around his head and face.
He swam faster, his heavy boots slowing him down, but not too much. E.O. had never stopped swimming and was fit and active for an elderly man; in good shape despite his chronic alcohol abuse and smoking. His lungs, despite the torture of unfiltered cigarettes, still knew how to work for him when he was in the water. He could see the shoreline and knew that he would be slower on land, more cumbersome, but he wouldn’t let that stop him from running down the path toward the four-wheeler.
Something grabbed his ankle and yanked him back. E.O. loosed a strangled scream that sent water running down his throat as he fought to kick himself free. His other foot caught something solid and meaty with a thump that was swallowed by the water. The action was met with a snarl that made E.O.’s bowels feel weak. He started to kick out again with his other foot
when that ankle was grabbed as well.
E.O. had half a second to try and pull himself free before he was dragged under water. He sucked in a mouthful of cold, gritty liquid, eyes open and head tilted back. He could see the beautiful sky through the wavery window of water overhead. The grip on his ankles released and he surged upward, lungs straining with the urge to cough up the water he had sucked down his throat. His upturned face had just parted the water’s surface when pain ripped through his side. It felt so cold it burned as it sank deeper. Blood clouded around E.O.’s face as he was pulled back into the depths. With the bright light cutting through the blue water, the fog of his blood appeared as a rich purple before it began to disseminate in the currents and turned sunshine orange and brilliant red.
Bubbles streamed from his open mouth as E.O. screamed, the sound traveling through the water and absorbed by it. A horrible pain in his gut made him squeeze his eyes closed as something let go inside of him. When he opened his eyes again, he saw his own intestines floating in front of his face like gory party streamers. The blood in the water made it look like they were on fire as E.O., still conscious, struggled toward the surface again. The pain was so great he reeled from it and he knew he was dying, but he wasn’t ready to give up. He took a labored breath and tried to swim, his entrails tangling around his legs in thick, stinking ropes. He felt himself going under again and thought, No, no, not like this.
It was what everyone who died a violent death thought.
He still tried to swim, the stupid survival instinct pushing a body that had not yet delivered the message to the brain: You are dying. Just let it go.
E.O. wanted to close his eyes and go home to his Doreen and probably his beloved Kelly, too. Yet his eyes remained open, staring across the water, smelling the stench of his own demise. The shore was right there, so close. If only he could make it just a little bit farther he would scoop up his insides and stumble his way to help and like Humpty Dumpty, they would put him back together again.
Something big and black rose up before him, extinguishing the dying light of his hope.
“No,” E.O. groaned.
The monster before him flicked out its long red tongue and licked his cold, pale face.
Then it opened its mouth and surged toward him, teeth closing around E.O.’s fragile skull, taking away the shoreline forever.
27
Early Monday morning Nick awoke from a nightmare. In it, he heard the howling of wolves and ran from them, sure they were going to take him down any second. He’d looked over his shoulder, trying to seek out the source of all his terror to gauge how much of a lead he had when he’d slammed into something. He had turned to find Crash standing before him, arms outstretched and a lovely smile curving his lips.
“Welcome to the show, Nick,” he breathed against his mouth right before he lunged for his throat.
Nick lay in his bed, panting as he tried to shake the images from his mind. Wes was lying beside him, curled up in a ball against Nick’s side and Nick turned to look at him and envied his rest. At least Wes was sleeping though, that was a first in a while from what he had told Nick. The night a couple of weeks ago when he’d gone over to visit him, Wes had been pale and exhausted and later, had woken Nick up screaming.
The sheet was draped around Wes’s ribcage and his scarred shoulder reared up from the rumpled navy blue fabric like a mountain rising from the ocean. Wes’s scars gleamed in the moonlight that poured into the room, lapping at the raised edges of scar tissue, painting them silver. Nick reached out and ran his hand lightly over the curves and ridges. Wes made a discomfited sound in his sleep and scooted closer to Nick. He frowned, but stopped touching him and reached down to pull the sheet up over Wes’s shoulder.
Nick lay there for another minute before he rolled over and got up because he had never been able to stand lying in bed wide awake. He tugged on his jeans and paused to look down at Wes, telling himself he really needed to stop fucking the guy. He’d told himself the same thing when Wes had called him before he went to work and asked if he could come by later. Nick had said yes without hesitation, but only if it wouldn’t be too late for Wes. Wes had said it wouldn’t be and when Nick’s shift was over, he’d gone to Wes’s. Instead of staying there though, he’d brought Wes home with him because Wes said he needed a change of scenery.
“Fuck.” Nick ran a hand over his face, scratching lightly at the golden stubble on his cheek as he made his way down the hall. He needed a beer then thought maybe he’d watch some television.
He drank his first beer standing by the sink, looking out the window at the moon dappled yard. The sky to the east was beginning to lighten and soon it would be morning. Nick had barely slept an hour and he sighed. He’d been sleeping less since he read the articles at the library. He’d spent the following day calling hospitals in Michigan near the area the murders had taken place, asking if they’d ever had an employee named Calvin Newman. He lied and said he was a potential employer, following up on references listed. There were holes in the story—a lot of holes—but no one questioned Nick’s inquiry. For all he knew, that was standard procedure when calling up a reference. He had found the former employers of one Calvin Newman and had asked after him; his behavior at work, how well he got along with other staff. The answer had been that he was a good employee, but he kept to himself.
Nick found the hospital’s location on a map after getting Hylas’s help and his heart sank. The hospital wasn’t only near the location of the murders; it was in the same town.
After snagging another beer, Nick padded into the living room and clicked on the television. He turned it down low so he didn’t bother Wes and flipped through channels until he found a cooking show that he was mildly interested in. Then the chef roasted a whole head of garlic and proceeded to press out the resultant goo. Nick’s stomach did a swan dive that turned into a somersault as he watched roasted garlic squirt free like pus ripe with infection. It made Nick think of the stinking, disgusting ooze that built up around the wounds made by blowfly maggots, disgusting little beasts people called wolves. When they had been kids, he and Nancy had a cat that got one in its neck and they had popped the vile thing free like the most horrifying of blackheads.
Nick swallowed thickly and took a swallow of beer. It was too early to deal with roasted garlic, apparently. He’d been in a dark frame of mind lately, thoughts taking on a morbid cast regardless of what he was doing unless what he happened to be doing was Wes; that was still fun. A lot of fun.
Nick did not want to think about that either because fun in that instance meant bad idea. You did not become involved with the john. You never, ever got tangled up in their lives. You fucked them, got your money and then you left. Nick was not Julia-fucking-Roberts; he would not ride off into the sunset with Wes. Nick was a whore and whores did not get happily ever afters. He tried to tell himself that wasn’t what he was anymore or that it didn’t have to be. It was a tired repetition by that point; constantly trying to convince himself that prostitution was not a thing he had to continue. After a life of whoredom, however, it was still as difficult to conceive of such a life as it had been the first time the thought crossed his mind. A thought that, incidentally, was also Wes’s fault.
Fucking Wes was a bad, bad idea that Nick kept giving in to.
Clearly, there was something wrong with him.
Nick finished his beer and got up for another one. He worked the thin crescent of his fingernail under the pull tab and was about to pop the top when the phone rang. It was shrill and loud in the gloomy early dawn hours, the nighttime world going to bed and the daytime world only barely waking. The beer hit the floor with a thump. In the louder, newer silence between the first ring and the second, Nick listened to the angry hiss of its contents fizzing inside the can, thankful in a distant way that he hadn’t yet opened it.
The phone rang for a third time and Nick snatched it off the cradle.
“Hello?” he said, speaking in a harsh whisper. Nancy h
ad worked a double shift, he thought maybe it was her calling for a ride home. Or worse, the sheriff’s department calling to tell him she’d been in a traffic accident because she had fallen asleep driving.
At first, there was only the hiss of static in the line and the soft, careful sounds of someone breathing.
“Hello?” Nick said again.
Still there was nothing. Nick counted to three and was about to hang up the phone when he heard, “Nick. Oh, Nick.”
He went still all over, muscles knotting with tension at the sound of that voice. “I’m hanging up,” Nick said.
“I’ve been alone for so long,” Crash said as though Nick had never spoken. “I’m lonely, Nick. Lonely. Lonely. Lonely.”
Every part of him screamed for Nick to hang up the phone, but his fingers had forgotten how to do it. It was a simple thing—place the phone back on the cradle and it would click itself off, effectively ending the creepy early morning interlude of Crash breathing in his ear.
“I need you,” Crash said. “I knew from the moment I laid eyes on you that you were the one. Do you know how rare that is, Nick? It’s incredibly rare. I thought it would never happen, but you came along and I watched you and I saw you and I knew. You know how I knew?”
Nick said nothing, only squeezed the phone tighter in his hand. If he couldn’t hang the goddamn thing up, he thought he could at least throw it. Crash was breathing heavier, words hitching and catching as he spoke. Nick didn’t want to think about what he was doing, but a lifetime of experience with such things told him anyway. His stomach did another somersault, skin itching and tingling like the phone had grown a tongue and licked him.
Shades of Night (Sparrow Falls Book 1) Page 32
