The Night Monster

by James Swain

  “I wish I knew,” I said.

  The sound of gunfire snapped our heads. The shots had come from the forest behind Kaplan’s property, and sounded like a small-caliber rifle.

  “More trouble,” I said.

  I drove down the dirt road to a small pond nestled behind Kaplan’s farm. About an acre in size, the pond’s water was brackish, the surface as smooth as glass. A pair of bamboo fishing poles were stuck in the ground by the pond along with a cooler. The owners of the poles were nowhere in sight. The rain had stopped and the sun was out.

  I parked beneath the inviting shade of a tree, and we both got out. Linderman removed the shotguns from the trunk of my car, and tossed one to me. The shotguns were called Mossbergs, and had gained wide popularity with law enforcement after quelling several prison riots in the late nineties.

  “How many shots did you count?” Linderman asked.

  “I heard two,” I said.

  “Same gun?”

  “I think so.”

  We walked down to the pond with the Mossbergs. In the soft ground I spied two pairs of footprints. Buster had taken a liking to the cooler, and with his nose popped the lid. I let out a soft whistle. The cooler was filled with flathead catfish resting on ice.

  “Are they good to eat?” Linderman asked.

  “They’re a local delicacy,” I said.

  “Looks like we stumbled upon a good fishing hole,” he said.

  I started to agree with him. Then I spotted the rifle poking out of the trees on the other side of the lake, and knew we were in trouble.

  CHAPTER 49

  had been in my share of firefights. Ninety percent of the time, no one got shot. The reason for this was simple: The target usually ducked.

  I tackled Linderman to the ground. A split-second later, a gunshot rang out, the bullet flying over our heads. Either the shooter had lousy aim, or was trying to scare the daylights out of us. Buster, who’d been sniffing the catfish, took off running.

  We lay with our stomachs on the soft ground, staring across the top of the pond. A pack of crows had exploded out of the trees and turned the sky black.

  “Where are they?” Linderman whispered.

  “On the other side of the pond.”

  “How many rifles?”

  “Just one.

  “Show me where they are.”

  I pointed at the spot where I’d seen the rifle poking through the trees. Linderman took aim and squeezed the trigger of his Mossberg. The shotgun’s pellets ripped through the branches and echoed across the forest. Screams followed, accompanied by Buster’s frantic barking. I jumped to my feet. Linderman was right beside me.

  “I’m going to my right. You go to the left,” the FBI agent said.

  Linderman took off in a crouch. I did the same, the two of us moving around the pond at the same speed. I could hear Buster ripping something apart behind the trees. A pair of high-pitched voices screamed for mercy.

  As I drew closer, the voices became more distinct. Two boys, maybe a few years past puberty. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Linderman aim high into the trees, and fire another shell. One of the boys screamed for his life.

  “Don’t shoot me … please!”

  Linderman halted when he was twenty feet from the trees. “Both of you come out with your hands in the air. Right now!”

  “Get your dog away from us,” the second boy pleaded.

  I hollered for him. I heard a yip, followed by Buster exploding out of the trees. He came over to my side with a wild look in his eyes.

  “Now come out, and do it slow,” Linderman ordered.

  Two adolescent boys walked single file out of the trees. Each wore green camouflage clothing and a baseball cap with the visor pointing backward. One of the boys’ pants legs had been ripped to shreds by Buster. They were so scared that both of them had started bawling.

  “Are there just two of you?” Linderman asked.

  “Yes, sir,” one answered.

  “See if he’s telling the truth,” Linderman said to me.

  I skirted around the boys and entered the woods. I came to the spot where they’d been hiding, and found a pair of .22s in the leaves. I brought the rifles out and showed them to Linderman.

  “Keep your eye on them,” Linderman said.

  I kept my shotgun trained on the boys. Linderman took the .22s and emptied them of their ammunition. Then he tossed the rifles into the middle of the pond. He watched them sink, and turned back to me.

  “Let’s find out what they’re up to,” he said.

  We separated the boys, with Linderman taking one to the other side of the pond, while the boy with the ruined pants stayed with me. Buster had not calmed down, and several times I told him to lie down, afraid he might again go on the attack.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Clayton,” the boy mumbled.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you, Clayton,” I snapped.

  He lifted his gaze. He had muted brown eyes and peach fuzz on his cheeks. Sticking out of his baseball cap were several wisps of curly black hair.

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  “Thirteen.”

  “You live in Chatham?”

  Clayton vigorously nodded his head. Fear has a powerful effect on people, and often cleanses their consciences. He looked ready to confess.

  “Why’d you shoot at us?” I asked.

  “We thought you were the Bledsoes.”

  “Who are they?”

  “They’re a family that lives in town. They come out and steal our fish.”

  “Do you know Mister Kaplan? He owns the farm down the road. Someone burned down his barn and killed his horses. Was that you and your friend?”

  Clayton stared at the ground and didn’t respond. My heart was racing from being shot at, and I wasn’t willing to put up with any of the kid’s crap. I nudged Buster with my foot, and my dog emitted a vicious bark. Clayton jumped back in alarm.

  “Don’t let him bite me!”

  “Did you set that fire?”

  “No, sir. It wasn’t me.”

  “But you know who did, don’t you?”

  Clayton glanced at his buddy on the other side of the pond. Satisfied his buddy wasn’t watching him, he said, “Yes, sir. I know who did it. It was the Bledsoes.”

  “Tell me why they did that.”

  “Some men from Jacksonville came to town and started asking questions. Word got out that nobody should talk to them. Only Mr. Kaplan did, and his place got burned.”

  “Who else talked to them?”

  “The Webber family did. They ain’t around anymore.”

  “The men who were asking questions … were they policemen?”

  “No, sir. They were private investigators. They worked for some big insurance company. I don’t know what they wanted.”

  I had heard enough. Clayton had answered my questions without hesitation, a sign that he was probably telling the truth. Linderman and Clayton’s friend came around the pond toward us. I pulled Linderman to one side, and we compared notes. Their stories were the same, and we decided the boys were telling the truth.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “Outside of the fact that they shot at us, I think they’re harmless,” Linderman said. “I vote for letting them stay. Maybe we can pull some more information out of them.”

  I agreed, and turned to the boys.

  “Grab your poles,” I said.

  We let Clayton and his friend fish the pond with us. They stood a good distance away, and kept to themselves. Had we let them run into town and tell everyone about the strange men with the shotguns, I knew our chances of saving Sara Long were doomed. Better to keep them around, and let them enjoy the afternoon.

  Using the boys’ bait, Linderman and I caught six of the prettiest flathead catfish I’d ever seen, and stored them in their cooler. As the sun started to set, I called the boys over. They reluctantly joined us, and glanced nervously at the shotguns lyi
ng in the grass.

  “Here’s the deal,” I said. “Each one of you gets to pick a fish. We’re going to take the rest. I’ll pay you for the cooler. Deal?”

  The boys nodded woodenly. Clayton picked the largest of the catch, while his friend took the next biggest fish. I handed Clayton a twenty-dollar bill, which was more than enough for the cooler and the ice.

  “You boys have a nice day,” I said.

  Clayton had a funny look on his face. Like he’d come to an understanding about what had happened, and needed to get it off his chest. He took off his baseball cap.

  “I’m sorry we shot at you,” Clayton said.

  “Mistakes happen,” I replied.

  “Thank you for not killing us,” Clayton said.

  “Yeah, thanks for not killing us,” his friend echoed.

  “You’re welcome,” I said.

  I watched Clayton and his friend walk away with their fish. It was a strange thing for a couple of teenagers to say, but I thought I knew why they had. Chatham was filled with dark secrets. And when the townspeople broke those secrets, they paid for it, sometimes with their lives. I picked up the cooler and carried it to my Legend. Linderman grabbed the shotguns and joined me.

  “I want to go back to town, and find out what’s going on,” I said.

  “Do you think that’s wise?” Linderman asked.

  If wisdom was my guide, I’d never have become a cop, or did the work that I did now. The fact was, I wasn’t leaving Chatham until I found Sara Long, and discovered what the hell was wrong with these people.

  “Time will tell,” I said.

  CHAPTER 50

  t was dusk when we pulled into Chatham. The streets had come alive, with cars and pedestrians and signs of life not seen that morning. An eatery on the main drag called The Sweet Lowdown looked promising. I parked beneath a sign that warned the space was for restaurant loading only. As I got out, an overweight man wearing a grease-stained apron came out the front door, and started to berate me.

  “Sweet Christ, can’t you read the sign? You can’t park your car there,” the man said angrily. “Find another spot, or I’ll have you towed.”

  “You the owner?” I asked.

  “Damn straight I am,” he replied.

  I went around to the back of my Legend and popped the trunk. Curious, the owner followed me. I proudly showed him the cooler filled with flathead catfish. Before my eyes, the owner’s hostility melted away.

  “Would you look at those. You fixing to sell them?” he asked.

  “Heck, no, I want you to cook them,” I replied.

  “You boys don’t think you can eat all of these, do you? There must be thirty-five pounds of meat here.”

  “Whatever we don’t eat, I was going to let you keep,” I said.

  “That’s mighty generous of you,” the owner said.

  “My friend and I are only in town for a couple of days,” I explained. “It would be a crying shame to see these beautiful fish go to waste.”

  The owner wiped his hands on his apron, then stuck out a meaty paw. “I’m Gabe. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  I shook his hand, and so did Linderman. If Buster had been standing there, I had a feeling Gabe would have shaken his hand as well. Free food did that to people. I grabbed the cooler and followed Gabe inside the restaurant.

  Gabe treated us like kings. We were seated in a table by the front window, where we could eat our dinner and watch the world pass by. Our catfish were put on ice and displayed in the restaurant’s other front window. A waitress put a pitcher of beer on our table, and said it was on the house. She asked us how we wanted our fish cooked.

  “Fried,” I said.

  “The same,” Linderman said.

  She filled two glasses with beer and left. The beer looked tempting, but I wasn’t in a partying mood. I looked around the restaurant. Mounted deer heads hung from the walls, along with old Florida license plates and sepia-toned photographs of the town from years ago. I glanced out the window at the street. Pedestrians meandered by, as did cars on the main drag, no one moving particularly fast. It was the quintessential picture of small-town life. Only I knew it wasn’t. Something was terribly wrong here.

  Our dinners came. Our plates overflowed with fried catfish, hush puppies, and fried okra. To wash it down, our glasses were poured with all the sweetened iced tea we could drink. Linderman tried each item on his plate hesitantly. Deciding the food wasn’t poisoned, he dug in.

  “Giving him the fish was a smart idea,” Linderman said.

  “It bought us a few hours,” I said.

  “What do you think is going on?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  I ate my meal. Knowing that I’d caught the fish myself made it taste that much better. As I raised my fork to my mouth, I stopped. A white-haired couple had entered the restaurant, and stood by the hostess stand waiting to be seated. Both wore leather pants and leather jackets, and were carrying motorcycle helmets. They were normal-looking, except that the man’s left arm was missing, the sleeve of his shirt tied in a knot. The woman was missing her right foot, and walked with a carved wooden cane. They returned my gaze, and I lowered my eyes to my plate.

  “Something wrong?” Linderman asked.

  “See that couple at the hostess stand?”

  “What about them, besides the fact they’re both missing limbs?”

  “The manager at our motel is missing his hand, and the woman who waited on me at the pharmacy this morning was missing her foot.”

  The couple walked by our table with a hostess. The armless man stopped to kick the leg of my chair. I lifted my eyes, and was greeted with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred. The armless man was tall and broad-chested, with a flat face and shoulder-length yellowing hair that was more nicotine than ivory.

  “You got no right to stare at us,” the armless man said.

  “Sorry if I offended you,” I said.

  “If I was you, I’d finish my dinner and move on.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said.

  “And don’t come back.”

  “No, sir.”

  The armless man joined his wife on the other side of the restaurant, and sat down at a table. I caught my waitress’s eye, and she hurried over.

  “Everything okay?” our waitress asked pleasantly.

  “I’d like to buy that fellow and his wife a drink,” I said, pointing to where the armless man and his wife were sitting.

  “You mean Travis Bledsoe and his wife? Sure,” the waitress said.

  She crossed the restaurant and spoke to the Bledsoes. I’d never liked people who burned down property and killed harmless animals, and I gave Travis Bledsoe a hard look. Bledsoe returned my gaze with a dark, burning stare.

  The waitress came back to our table.

  “He’s not interested,” the waitress said.

  “Thanks for asking,” I said.

  “You’re welcome. You want some dessert? We’ve got delicious homemade blueberry pie.”

  “Sounds like a winner,” I said.

  She took our plates and left. Linderman leaned in close, and lowered his voice. “Bledsoe is carrying a gun around his ankle. I spotted the bulge.”

  “Anyone else in the restaurant armed?” I asked.

  “Two guys up at the bar are carrying as well.”

  I glanced at the pair of good ole boys holding up the bar. They’d been drinking boilermakers and talking college football since we’d come in.

  “Ankle holsters?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Our desserts came. The blueberry pie was as good as advertised. I ate mine slowly, watching the room while Linderman watched the action outside. I felt like I’d stumbled onto something, yet still didn’t understand what it was.

  “How about some coffee?” our waitress asked.

  She stood next to our table, holding a pot and two cups. I glanced across the room at the table with Bledsoe and his wife. He was watching us with murderous intensi
ty. I wanted to buy some more time, and I said, “Do you have decaf?”

  “I can brew you a pot,” she said cheerfully.

  “That would be great.”

  “Two cups?

  “Please.”

  She left. The restaurant was starting to fill up. A line had formed by the hostess stand, and I spotted a big man wearing coveralls who was also missing an arm. That made five limbless citizens of Chatham and counting.

  Our waitress returned with a fresh pot of decaf. She poured two steaming cups with a big smile on her face.

  “Those catfish in the window are sure drawing them in,” she said.

  “I’m glad they’re not going to waste,” I said.

  I blew the steam off my drink and looked at Linderman. The FBI agent had stopped eating his dessert, and was staring out the window at the street.

  “See something?” I asked.

  “This is really sick,” Linderman said.

  I craned my neck to have a look. The sidewalk outside The Sweet Lowdown was filled with people out for an evening stroll. Over a third of them were missing an arm, a leg, or a hand, with some even missing two limbs. They all seemed to know each other, and had stopped to chat or to have a smoke. It was a parade of the maimed.

  I quickly counted the number of dismembered standing outside. There were thirty-five. That made forty limbless citizens so far.

  “At least half these people are carrying a concealed firearm,” Linderman said.

  “Want to leave?”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “At least the food was good.”

  “You’re a funny guy, Jack.”

  I waved our waitress over to the table. She acted sad to see us leave. I had to think she was the only person in the restaurant who felt that way. I asked for the check, and she informed us that the meal was on the house. I threw down a fat tip.

  “Ya’all come back,” the waitress said.

  We headed for the door. The hostess nodded as we passed, happy to see a table free up. Something about her looked vaguely familiar. Tall and dark-skinned, she was pretty in a reserved way, her eyes lowering when she realized I was gazing at her. My eyes fell on her plastic name tag. V. Seppi.

  Linderman and I went outside. The crowd standing outside the restaurant was three deep. I tried not to stare at those who were missing limbs. It was hard. They were everywhere I looked.