The officers stalked off and Brady went back to his car. Dispatch radioed over saying that Mayor Cobb wanted his ear at his earliest convenience. Playing politics was a downside of this gig—one he didn’t think he was built for.
Trish was always telling him to ‘suck it up’ and ‘play the game’ but he couldn’t. His plate was too full to worry about nonsense. There was an abandoned car on the outskirts of town—a driver missing and potentially dead—at the same time that the grove’s most notorious tourist was looking to get a handle on her life. These problems required his attention.
He was going to have to find a way to make this up to Melanie Holden before she slammed the grove in whatever damn book she was writing.
“I hate this job,” he sighed and headed for his cruiser.
***
Melanie wasn’t to the end of the road when the fuel light blinked.
“Shit,” she mumbled. Yesterday’s encounter with Brady left her so flustered that refilling the tank had slipped her mind.
Another reason to hate that jerk.
Then she remembered the ramshackle gas station on the way out here.
The wooden sign out front read LAST MILE GAS, and it might’ve been in worse shape than the cabins back at camp. The pumps looked like they were about to be swallowed by encroaching foliage, and the garage might’ve been outdated twenty-five years ago.
But the prices were indicative of modern America—gouged beyond reason. An elderly man waddled out from the office as she rolled in. He rubbed his hands off on his grease-slicked one-piece jumpsuit and offered a haggard grin. His name was scrawled in cursive on a patch across his breast: JED.
“Lost or passing through?”
“I need gas.”
“Sure you do. But for my benefit, tell me straight…lost, or passing through?”
“Uh, neither?”
“The hell else is there? You ain’t from around here, that’s plain to see. If you were, you wouldn’t be here.”
“Just visiting.”
“Passing through, then.”
“I suppose. Now can you fill it with regular, please?”
The old man shuffled to the rear of the car to pop the gas cap off.
Melanie decided she’d had enough of the third degree and wandered into the store for a bottle of water. Her nerves weren’t yet steadied from the incident at camp and her tongue felt dry. A rusted kettle bell announced her arrival as she pulled open the door, and the old man started shouting.
“Have a look around. Our shelves are as bare as a baby’s balls, so I hope you weren’t planning on doing yer grocery shopping.” He thought this was hilarious, doubling over in a guffaw as the door swung shut.
A rolled up Hustler magazine was coiled on the countertop, an indicator that business wasn’t just slow, but terminal. The place stunk of mildew and neglect, and only the two shelves nearest the counter were stocked with any groceries. A paltry collection of offerings: Twinkies, local potato chips, a few bags of jerky and Slim Jims, and two or three rolls of paper towels.
The rear cooler was as abandoned as the rest of the store—one row of bottled water and two rows of Coke products. Melanie grabbed a Dasani and headed for the counter as Jed was making his way back inside.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said and resumed his place behind the counter on a wobbly stool. He pushed a tobacco pipe into his mouth and chewed on the tip. “I’m just lucky if I get two or three customers a week. And I’ve had them already. So I was surprised when you came pulling in. Figured you must’ve got off the highway and got all turned around out here. But that happens less and less these days on account of those goddamn cell phones everyone’s so afraid to take out of their fists.”
“No worries,” she said, her eyes falling to the porno mag as he brushed it aside.
“Ain’t trying to be uncouth. I sometimes forget my manners now that I’m on my own.”
“It’s fine,” she pushed the water forward hoping it would be enough of a hint.
It wasn’t. “I do know you, don’t I? You’re that Holden girl, right? All grown up? One of the town’s finest was out here yesterday and he might’ve mentioned something about your visit.”
“In the flesh,” she wasn’t prepared to offer further explanation.
“Didn’t make the connection until just now, but who else would you be?” He continued without ringing her in. “Truckers are keeping me in business at this point. Bunch of them fill up here a few times a week. If you’re wondering why I don’t keep up on stock it’s ‘cause no one bothers patronizing us these days. Me and my wife…we’ve run this shop since 1963. Lost her to cancer back in ’99 and I’ve been muddling through ever since. Most people go shopping these days, they do it downtown. Biggest assholes drive out to the CVS on the edge of Litchfield County. Don’t see what’s so convenient about that drive, but there you have it.”
“Just the water, please.” Melanie offered a faint smile while digging through her purse for a couple of dollar bills. Anything to avoid looking him in the eye. Anything to discourage more conversation.
“Oh, the water,” Jed pressed a scanner to the barcode and pushed the bottle back. “You just came from the camp, am I right?”
Melanie wasn’t sure her façade of manners could last.
“Your eyes are tellin’ me I touched a nerve so I’ll leave it be. I only mention it as a courtesy because Camp Forest Grove isn’t fit for you to go traipsing around these days.”
Melanie threw two bills across the counter. “I know that. If you know who I am, you should know that I know that.”
“Mind my business, right? Last thing a young woman wants is some old curmudgeon to start in with life lessons. I know that I’m a bag of wind. All the same, I hate seeing people messing with that place. After all these years, I don’t trust it worth a damn.”
“That makes two of us…Jed.”
“More than two,” he said and glanced around as if he was worried that another set of ears might’ve overheard.
Melanie did her own uncertain slow pan over her shoulder, but there was only an empty store. She returned her confused eyes to the front counter, to where the old man was suddenly leaned in close and whispering.
“There’s bad mojo in those woods. And it was there long before your friends got killed.”
This was the first Melanie had heard of it. Her hostility cooled, recognizing the potential value in the old man’s knowledge. She flashed a fake grin and put the water back on the counter. “What are you afraid of?”
“I watched cancer cut my wife down to the bone. Go through that and there’s nothing left to fear. But all the same, the grove used to be a nice place to live. You know that tired cliché about how your parents never had to lock their doors at night ‘cause things were just that safe? I remember those days if I try hard enough. Good memories have a way of being bullied out of your brain by nastier ones. Guess we’re sensitive things, ain’t we?”
Melanie eyed Jed, trying to decide whether or not this was the real deal. The shoulders of his jumper were covered in dandruff and his chapped lips looked like they’d bleed the next time he parted them—a lonely old guy left to his own devices. But the way he spoke—his words held the same authority as hers when she taught. It meant that he knew what he was talking about.
She’d done her due diligence on Forest Grove over the years and never heard anything about prior tragedy. No. This was something else.
The Forest Grove murders were the subject of countless books and television specials over the years, and Melanie had declined participation in every one. Hell, some German filmmaker—Ulli something—had even taken the gist of Hoyt’s killing spree and turned it into an incredibly tasteless direct-to-DVD slasher movie called Maniac Murders of Forest Grove. Gross.
“Am I bothering you, with this stuff? I really shouldn’t be saying anything but when you get to be my age, you stop giving a shit about what others think. Trust me, it’ll happen to you, too. I’m
87 and ain’t got much use for tact anymore. Especially for a goddamn town that was content to let our business die on the vine.”
“You’re not bothering me at all. I’m just surprised to hear this.”
“I expect you are. Normally I wouldn’t mention it, but I hate to see you stick around here any longer than you have to. You got out once and good for you. You need to do that again. This place’s got blood on its hands, and it’s the kind they don’t talk about.”
“I’m listening.”
“The grove tried hushing up some real ugly business back in ’69. No one wanted to talk about what happened because they figured it’d go away and that would be that.”
“That’s enough.” Someone was standing at the back of the shop. Melanie leapt out of her skin, turning to see a younger man coming in from the garage, the connecting door swinging behind him. He looked to be her age, maybe five years older, with dark gray hair cropped against his skull. The scar on his chin rendered his features more severe, though his eyes were soft and kind as he strode forward. “You’ll excuse my father, he can tell a tale.”
“Tale or not, I’d very much like to hear the rest of it.”
Jed’s son never took his eyes off his father. “I’m afraid there’s nothing more to tell. Some people died on the lake, blame was thrown around back then as it continues to be today. They say some of our southernmost states are still fighting the Civil War, and a similar sentiment applies to Forest Grove. It was a tragedy for our community and like all tragedies, it has left its mark upon our collective soul.”
“Horseshit,” Jed said as his son’s words trampled the profanity. The old man lapsed into silence, as if trained.
“No charge for the gasoline, miss. Please allow me to walk you back to your car and I will explain.”
“I think I’d really rather hear what Jed has to say.” Melanie glanced at the old man but his attention had fallen away. He gazed down at the barren countertop.
“I’m afraid that is impossible.” The son smiled and pushed the door open. Overhead, the kettle bell rang. “My father is an old man. He gets confused from time-to-time and when that happens, he needs his rest.”
Jed had gone inactive. He fished the Hustler up off the floor as if Melanie had never been there.
“At least let me pay for the gas,” Melanie said. “I know Jed doesn’t get many customers so…”
“Another exaggeration.” The son smiled again. “If you would please…”
“I’m coming,” she said, her heart fluttering as she brushed by the stranger. He was at her side the second she was out the door, keeping pace with her hurried steps.
“I realize this is uncomfortable. You have my apology.”
“I’d rather have your father’s information.”
“There is no deep secret here, miss. Just sympathy and respect for those who have lost loved ones.”
“I lost loved ones,” She looked across the street. “Out there. Years ago.” Melanie hoped this type of solidarity would start him talking, but she could see that he was going to be a tough nut to crack.
“And I would never infringe on your privacy. Please, let’s not make things unpleasant for those who suffered prior.”
“You’re Jed’s son?”
“Sam,” he said and offered his hand.
“Your father didn’t mention you.”
They reached her car and Sam pulled the driver’s door open. Once Melanie was inside, he slammed it and smiled. “My father is a broken man. Alzheimer’s. He has good days and bad, but we keep this place open as a courtesy to him. Nothing more. Believe it or not, it has helped give his golden years some purpose and structure.”
“And you help out?”
“I play the good son when I have to. Now you’d best be on your way, miss. I do not recommend sticking around here—not for one more night.”
Jed was barely visible in the window as she rolled past it, his head angled down at the counter—attention drowned out in another skin rag, most likely.
Melanie was eager to get back to her room. The errant footprint at Desiree’s was bad, but it was no match for the barrage of hostility and creepiness that the grove was offering today.
In the rearview, Sam stood in her dust, calmly waving goodbye with tight lips and cold eyes.
Jed doesn’t have Alzheimer’s.
He’d been far too sharp and responsive for that. This encounter left her feeling all kinds of wrong, but there was nothing to be done.
This was the second place she’d been chased out of in as many stops today. Going home was beginning to feel like the best option.
***
Sam went back inside to find Jed missing.
Shit.
He couldn’t have gotten far, though. Not at his age.
He gave the store a once-over and went to the window, looking at the old man’s house in the backyard. He was nowhere to be seen.
“Let’s go, Jed.” He opened the connecting door and stepped into the garage. The oil and grease smells were pungent, and the bathroom door was ajar. But the light was off, meaning it was unoccupied.
This was going to be a problem. His job was to make sure that the bitter old bastard didn’t sound off like that to random passers-by. They weren’t going to be happy no matter how he tried spinning this one, because the bottom line was that the blonde walked out with knowledge that she’d didn’t have before. True, Jed hadn’t said anything definitive, but this would register as his failure.
And that scared the shit out of him.
“Come on, Jed, you know I have to tell them about this.” The garage’s two bays were empty, save for Sam’s pickup. The hydraulic lift in bay two was fully extended into the air, as it had been for decades. It felt like a waste to repair it, because Last Mile Gas wasn’t long for this world. It died when Jed did.
Sam was on his way outside to continue his search when the shuffling and scraping sound of metal on metal stopped him dead.
Someone else was in this room.
“Come on, Jed. Let’s shut ‘er down for the day and head to Lloyd’s.” He followed the sound around his vehicle and a ring of chains dropped down in front of his face, right before something struck his head and knocked him back—a harsh spike of pain igniting behind his eyes.
The old man dangled from a chain noose, his eyes popped wide. The weight of his body had fallen on the neck against the shackle, causing his head to droop unnaturally. He half swayed in the stagnating garage air, bodily secretions mixing with oily air.
Sam screamed, but an electric whir drowned out his startled cries. Something that sounded like a dentist’s drill had erupted in the darkened bathroom, and a second later, he saw an outline coming alive in there.
He tried to run, but a hand fell on his shoulder and spun him back the other way. The electric ratchet’s LED light flicked on and Sam squinted through it, seeing only a drill bit attachment whirling forward and tearing through his protesting tongue.
With a grunt, the ratchet went deeper into his mouth, shattering his front teeth like glass before it ripped the roof and tore into his skull.
***
Hoyt squinted through the sprays of blood.
This—thing—did so much damage, cracking the bones behind his victim’s face so that his features collapsed inward, leaving a reservoir of blood spilling from broken orifices. The crumpled head reminded him of a popped balloon—stretched and limp.
He let the body drop beside the hanging man, studying his work with deep, satisfied breaths.
Melanie had been here, but he wasn’t convinced that he was ready for the prize. Instead, he allowed her to leave in order to focus on the men. This was an isolated place, and the wealth of weaponry here encouraged creativity.
Killing them had been easy, and now that it was over, he knew it was time to resume the hunt. The bodies couldn’t stay, though. Someone might eventually come looking for them. And they’d eventually find out what happened.
That was alway
s the way. That was how the trouble always started.
He stacked the bodies by the back door and planned to take them into the woods at nightfall. Then he cleaned the mess as best he could, passing the muddy garage windows in time to catch sight of a police car rolling in from the direction of camp. It sat idling in front of the gas pumps while he fished a single key out of Jed’s jumper and moved into the store, crouch-walking up the far aisle with his eye fixed permanently on it.
He had to reach the front door in time.
Hoyt took slow steps across the main aisle, hoping it would make him more difficult to detect. It wasn’t until he reached the door and slipped the key into the lock that he heard a car door slam.
It was a race against time now, because the policeman would be here in a second. If it was open he would come inside, and that would be how this ended. Not at first, because what was one more man after he’d killed two? But killing police meant there would be others after, and the game jumped ahead too far then.
The lock was stubborn and he jiggled the key as much as he dared, keeping the noise to a minimum. There was a click as it slid into place, but he was sure it had been too loud to go unnoticed. Hoyt only had a second to hide against the space between the door and the large window front before the policeman’s shadow fell large across the floor.
The knob jiggled a few times, followed by a knock. He didn’t dare breathe for as long as the cop was there—a few inches of wood framing and panels were all that separated them. When he finally turned and headed away, Hoyt watched him go, hoping he wouldn’t decide to snoop around.
The man he somehow recognized as Chief Brady started his car and drove slowly past the window front, eyes scanning the desolate aisles before finally accelerating and driving off.
Hoyt considered this an exciting success. He headed back to the garage feeling ready, while thinking that sunset couldn’t come fast enough.
Under The Blade Page 9
