I let out a growl. As we reached the top of the stairs, the doorbell rang.
“Aw, man.”
“Let’s pretend we’re not home,” I said.
“Both cars are in the driveway.”
I set her down, sighed theatrically and limped downstairs to open the front door. It was Detective Van Gundy.
“Oh, hi,” I said. I’d forgotten how huge he was. He was easily six feet eight, with dark brown wavy hair and a worried brow, smelling of cigarettes.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Pulaski. Can I come in for a minute?”
“Sure.” I stepped back and let him into the foyer.
This guy was a humorless bag of nothing but. His being here made me nervous as I led him into the living room.
“What can I do for you?” I said. “Any leads on Jim?”
He sat on the floral sofa, pushing his tree-trunk legs out in front of him. His shoes must’ve been size sixteen. This guy was frickin’ Herman Munster.
“Play any basketball?” I said.
“No. Heart condition.” He turned as Holly walked in wearing a loose-fitting summer dress. She was gorgeous. The detective got to his feet.
“What’s going on?” she said.
“Detective Van Gundy wanted to give us an update on Jim.”
“Oh?”
I sat opposite the policeman, and she leaned against the arm of the leather chair. I could smell her perfume. We reached for each other’s hands.
“I can see you’re going out,” the detective said. “I’ll make it quick. We haven’t located your friend, but we are investigating a number of animal mutilations in the area near where he lives.”
“I read something about that in the paper,” Holly said. “You don’t think Jim had anything to do with it?”
“We’re still looking into it. Would you describe Jim Stanley as a violent person?”
“No,” I said. “He drinks, though. But I’ve never known him to harm anyone, even when he was hammered.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Since high school.”
“And you, Mrs. Pulaski?”
“Three years,” she said. “Detective, you’re not asking these questions because of some missing pets.”
Detective Van Gundy looked down at his enormous Frankenstein shoes. “No. This morning a jogger found a body in the woods.”
“Oh no,” Holly said and squeezed my hand.
“It was pretty messed up.”
“Was it the missing woman?” I said. “We saw a news report that said they’re still looking for her.”
“We’re not allowed to say until the family is notified.” He went to the front door. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t ruin your evening.”
“It’s okay,” Holly said. “I’m so sorry. I agree with Dave, though. I don’t think Jim could’ve done that.”
“Please let me know if you hear from him,” the detective said.
“We will,” I said and took his card.
“Listen, I have to ask. Are you sure he hasn’t tried to contact you?”
“No. Why?”
“Sometimes well-meaning people think they’re protecting their friend by … holding back.”
“Honestly, we haven’t seen him.”
“Okay, but you let me know if he shows.”
“We will.”
When the detective was gone, I put my arms around Holly and kissed her nose. I could always tell when she was upset—and this news had gotten to her.
“It’s that woman—I know it is,” she said. “Whoever did that is still wandering around Tres Marias.”
“Let’s forget about it for now. I want us to have a good time, okay?”
“I’m not sure I feel like it.”
“Please, honey. It’s got nothing to do with us. Let’s just be together, okay?”
“Dave.”
“Please?”
“Fine. Let me get my purse.”
I took Holly to one of our favorite Mexican restaurants, a place called La Adelita. They had the best carne asada in the area.
“That detective thought we were lying about Jim,” she said.
We were both drinking iced tea, but I craved a beer. It didn’t help that people all around us were celebrating with oversize margaritas and beer by the pitcher.
“Don’t you think?” she said.
“What?”
“Dave, are you even listening to me?”
“Sorry, I got distracted. Look, he’s a cop. He’s asking routine questions.”
“Would you tell me the truth if you’d seen Jim?”
“What? Of course. Why lie about something like that?”
“I don’t know. I guess things have gotten strange the last few weeks.”
There must’ve been a power outage, because many of the streetlights were out as we made our way home. Holly decided it was a good idea to massage my thigh while I drove.
“I hope this is going somewhere.”
“Could be. We’ll see when we get home.”
Up ahead, I spotted a dark figure on the side of the road, tottering towards us, his head down. I slowed and went around. As my headlight beams shone on him, he looked up at us. His eyes were vacant. The way he moved, I could see he had the jimmies.
“See, this is why I don’t drink anymore,” I said.
My joke fell flat. The sight of this guy chilled us both, and we rode the rest of the way in silence. I kept thinking about how this thing was spreading. Could Holly or I come down with the sickness?
At home in familiar surroundings we couldn’t wait to get into bed. It felt like when we were first dating. All my senses were aroused. I smelled her hair and got lost in it.
“We’re good together, aren’t we?” I said.
“Like fleas and parrots.”
I kissed her perfect fingers, then her wedding ring. She was everything I wanted. And I would do anything to protect her. Anything.
I pulled her close and kissed her. “I love you so much, Holly.”
“You butter,” she said and pushed me onto my back.
WE READ THE DISTURBING headline in the paper—MAN SEES BODY OF MISSING WOMAN. A local hunter told reporters he found the body of the missing woman, a local named Sarah Champion, in the woods. She’d been eviscerated. He went to get help, but when he returned with the police, the body was gone. The only things left were blood, hair, bits of clothing and a finger.
Sarah was a writer in her forties who loved to run. Holly and I had seen her many times in the early morning on our way to work. She left behind a husband and two young sons. The hapless hunter was not considered a suspect.
Holly and I carpooled whenever we had the same work schedule. With the news of Sarah’s slaying, fear had taken over our lives. Fear of the forest, fear of the night and fear of other people. I thought about buying a gun.
Everyone at work talked about the killing. Some believed the hunter had murdered Sarah himself, hidden the body and gone to the police to taunt them. Those people watched too much cable television.
“It had to be a drifter,” Fred said. He was incapable of believing anyone in Tres Marias would commit such an atrocity. “A psycho from across the border.”
“And by ‘border’ you mean Oregon?” I said.
“Exactly. Or farther north even. Remember the Green River Killer?”
“How do you explain the animal mutilations?” someone else said. It was Zach, the wiseass kid who spent all his time in the alley smoking dope when he wasn’t stocking inventory.
Fred regarded him like a patient teacher. “I told you, Zach. There’s a rabid bear or something out there.”
“Or maybe one of those freaks with the jimmies did it.”
“Why don’t you unpack those fax machines.”
“I’m tellin’ ya, man …”
Zach was the one person Fred ordered around. The rest of us knew our jobs and did them without being asked. I often wondered why Fred didn’t fire him. I suppose it ha
d something to do with the fact that Fred was the one who had hired him. He saw himself as a good judge of character.
“Zach’s just rough around the edges,” he said one time.
At Subway, Holly and I tried to keep the conversation light, but it always came back to the weird events that consumed our lives. In my head I saw Missy everywhere, and I was terrified she would confront me in front of my wife.
“Don’t you like your sandwich?” Holly said.
“Not that hungry, I guess.”
“I like the way you held me this morning.”
I tried ignoring the pain in my gut as my hand found hers.
When we got home in the late afternoon, I fell asleep on the sofa in the TV room. Holly insisted on going to the grocery store even though I’d promised to go later.
Something woke me. When I opened my eyes, Jim was standing there. Terrified, I rolled off the sofa and scrambled to my feet. He was gone. Had I dreamt this? I looked at the carpet and saw dirty footprints.
When Holly returned, she found me in the kitchen. If there was ever a time that demanded a drink, this was it. Instead I made a pot of strong black coffee.
“I suppose you expect me to clean up that mess?” she said.
“I didn’t do it.”
She must have seen my hand trembling as I struggled to bring the coffee to my lips. “What happened, Dave?”
“I saw Jim.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“He was standing next to me when I woke up. Then he was gone.”
“No, it had to be a dream.”
“Dreams don’t leave footprints.”
“Well, how did he get in?”
“You must’ve left the front door unlocked when you went out.”
“Oh God, Dave! What if he’s still in here?”
We never considered Jim a threat before. Holly stayed in the kitchen clutching a carving knife while I locked all the doors and searched the house. There were no other footprints—nothing. I began to doubt Jim had ever been there. I went back and checked the TV room. Nothing was different—other than the footprints—yet something was different.
“Holly, can you come in here a sec?”
“What is it?”
“There’s something about this room. I can’t …”
“I don’t see—” She reached up towards a shelf on the wall near the TV. “Dave, look at this.”
I saw where she was pointing. The shelf was dusty, but there was a spot which was dust-free.
“There used to be a picture here, right?”
“Yeah,” she said. “It was of you and Jim.”
“I remember. We were showing off the fish we caught at Shasta Lake. Right before you and I got married.”
Jim might have recalled that as a fun time, but I remember it as tense and awkward. It was our last trip together. He spent the whole time drunk, and it was hard for me not to join in. I kept thinking of my future together with Holly and refused to take part. A tourist happened to catch us in a good mood and snapped the pic. After that I didn’t want to hang out with my friend anymore.
“That was a great trip,” I said.
Over dinner we tried to take our minds off what had happened and made plans for an imaginary baby girl named Jade. So far we had her graduating from Berkeley and going into a graduate program at Stanford. Then the subject of Jim came up again.
“He could’ve been disoriented for a long time, then found his way out of the woods,” I said.
“Dave, he knows those woods. He would’ve made it home in no time. How did he look?”
“Like he was hurt bad. I’m going to take a ride out there.”
“Tonight?” I heard the scared in her voice.
“I need to see if he ever made it home.” I rinsed off the dishes and put them in the dishwasher.
“What if he’s not … normal?”
“Jim was never normal.”
“You know what I mean. What if he’s—”
“Dangerous?” She nodded. “You mean as in he killed Sarah Champion? Then I’ll hit him with a shovel and call 911.”
This didn’t make Holly feel any better, but it eased the tension. Trying not to think too much, I headed out.
“Lock everything up tight,” I said. When I kissed her, I knew she sensed how afraid I was.
“Dave? Make sure you’re not being followed, okay?”
“Good point.”
I walked to my truck without looking back. The last thing I needed was that dour detective on my ass.
The moon was huge and bright through the trees. Though it was summer, the air was crisp and smelled of pine. When I was younger, I used to want to get away from this place. Move to San Francisco or LA. After I met Holly, I saw the beauty around me—the trees, the fresh air, the quiet—and I understood why my parents had settled here.
Checking the rearview mirror, I made sure I wasn’t being followed. A colony of bats swooped out of the forest into the night. You can never tell with bats, whether they’re scared or out on a joyride. A lot of times they carried disease—primarily rabies. I wondered if that’s what caused the recent rash of people with the jimmies.
An owl hooted somewhere nearby. I heard a shriek and my heart thudded. I pulled over, rolled down the window and listened. Nothing but the wind.
“Mountain lion,” I said.
When I arrived at Jim’s house, everything was dark. I grabbed a flashlight from the glove compartment and got out to investigate. I stepped on something soft. It made a crunching noise, and when I shone the flashlight, I found an orange house cat that looked like it had been gored with a screwdriver.
I jumped away from the rotting carcass, wiped my shoe on some grass and shone the flashlight all around the front yard. There were dead animals everywhere—hundreds of them. Most were dogs and cats. As I moved towards the house I saw a raccoon and what was left of a weasel.
For a second I caught myself thinking this was like one of those horror movies where the audience is screaming “Get out of there now!” No one would be stupid enough to enter the house in real life. Yet here I was, and I believed it made sense. I had to find out what happened to my friend.
The front door was unlocked. Jim never locked his doors because he didn’t think he owned anything worth stealing. Being familiar with the sparse furniture and lack of refinement, I had to agree.
I tried the lights—they came on. I expected to see the walls smeared with the words HELTER SKELTER in blood, but what I saw shocked me all the same. A huge sculpture of green longneck beer bottles rose from floor to ceiling, suspended by iron rebars that had been fashioned into a massive wall with a hole in the center. When had Jim built this?
I stepped on an orange tail that must’ve belonged to the cat from outside. I stood in the living room for a time, admiring the work and remembering all those nights we drank ourselves stupid. There were so many times I woke up in the morning on Jim’s floor. I tried picturing myself there and wondered to the depths of my soul what in God’s name I had thought I was accomplishing. We’d spent so much time here, and I couldn’t remember a single intelligent conversation.
Much as I’d done at home, I did a careful check of the house, calling out Jim’s name. After fifteen minutes of searching, I took a seat in the kitchen. It was painted avocado green. The used aluminum table and chairs looked like they had come from a condemned diner. Jim had sold off his parents’ furniture long ago.
The refrigerator still worked. It was one of those old round-cornered Frigidaire jobs that might’ve looked good in the 1950s. I opened it and found what I expected. Nothing but beer. With the stress of these last few weeks, I craved that wicked drink. All those shiny bottles dusted with condensation waiting for someone to twist off the tops and try to quench a thirst that could never be satisfied. Catching myself, I slammed the refrigerator door shut and choked on a scream.
Jim was standing there, watching me with a birdlike curiosity.
His clothes were a mess
, caked with mud and what looked like dried blood. His sandy hair was matted with dirt. His eyes were like two wafers of slate, grey and lifeless. His eyelids were rimmed with red. A whitish goo had formed near the tear ducts. His mouth was filthy with old blood.
I don’t know if it was the fluorescent lights or I was tired, but he looked livid. The gash ringing his neck was dark and ragged. His skin was a kind of greyish and his fingernails were a blackish purple. And here was the weird part. Although he seemed to be alive and aware, there was no indication he was breathing.
Instead of panicking, I sat back on the chair and sighed. “Been watching me long?”
A riverless silence made the air heavy. I thought he hadn’t heard me, but when I looked over at him, I could see he was trying to form words but nothing came out. He moved towards me stiffly and I got to my feet. Why in hell hadn’t I brought the shovel?
“Jim, what’re you—”
He brushed past me and went to the refrigerator. I smelled excrement and saw he’d shitted himself. He grabbed a beer and tried to twist the top off. His fingers were stiff, the tips doughy, and he couldn’t manage it. This was the worst I’d ever seen him. I took the bottle and opened it for him. He stared at it for the longest time like he didn’t know what it was for. Then he drank.
As bad off as he was, I envied him because of the beer. I kept thinking about all those other bottles in the refrigerator. Why shouldn’t I join him for one last round?
The sound of him drinking was indescribable—like dirty runoff down a storm drain. He didn’t even swallow. He let gravity pull the beer down into his gut. I expected liquid to come squirting out of the gash in his neck.
Jim could finish a beer faster than anyone I knew. We used to have contests, and I always lost. It was the same now. The bottle was empty in a couple of seconds. He always belched afterwards. This time, he gawped at me stupidly.
“Where have you been all this time?” He stared at me through dead eyes and tried to form a crooked smile. “We had the whole town out looking for you.” I kept talking, more to keep myself calm than anything. “I think you might need a doctor. Can I have a look at your neck?”
I kept my palms open and in front of me. He smelled of rotting meat, and I had to fight to keep my gorge down. His dull eyes followed my hands as I examined his neck.
The Dead Series (Book 1): Tell Me When I'm Dead Page 3
