Thirst Part II

by Kae Bell

  But that had not happened. His boss immediately called the State Troopers, who had called the FBI. Within a half hour, the scene was of his reach. Beyond his purview.

  A FBI agent had called the station, talked with the top brass.

  Then the FBI Agent asked to speak with Danny.

  “Officer, I understand you were first on the scene and called the body in.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Well, Mr. Banks of course. But yes.”

  Danny waited for the praise. He wasn’t sure what but something good would come of this.

  “Can you please walk me through your exact steps, from the time you arrived to the Banks Farm to the time you left the property?”

  “Whaddaya mean?”

  The agent repeated the question, as if a tape recorder played it back.

  Officer Danny felt the heat rise to his face.

  “I arrived, went to the farm house. Banks drove us to the field, I saw the body, ID’d the body as the convict, and drove back to the station.

  The Agent on the phone was silent. Danny heard a pencil scribbling on a pad of paper.

  OK. That’s a start, now take me through it again, filling in the details you are leaving out.

  Officer Danny scoffed.

  “I don’t care for your tone…”

  The FBI Agent cut him off.

  “Nor I for yours. But, I am in charge here. Not you. So I don’t care if you don’t like my tone, my face, or my momma. Answer the fucking question. Walk. Me. Through. It. Again.”

  Danny’s face burned. He walked through his drive to the farm, his arrival at the house, his truck ride with Banks, and his discovery of the body. He could see it as he explained it. The white farmhouse, the dusty road, the dark woods, the mowed field.

  The call ended with an admonition to stay away from the Banks farm. Not to mention this incident to anyone. Not to speak to press if it called wanting details or a statement. The Bureau would handle it from here.

  Danny hung up, seething.

  As he talked, he remembered a couple details. He had an idea. The barest outlines of an idea. He tucked it aside to think on later. It made him feel better as he replied to this FBI agent who didn’t know much about country folk.

  *******

  Chapter 11

  Janet Reins wanted a cigarette and she needed a story. Or she needed a cigarette and wanted a story. Either way she was fucked. She’d been trailing this convict manhunt for weeks, following FBI agents on rainy trails through the woods. So far all she’d gotten from it was a nasty cough.

  Well, that and a crick in her neck from banging one of those flak-jacketed FBI guys in the back of an SUV. Even if the windows were blacked out, it wasn't her idea of an ideal first date.

  But she needed a source.

  Unfortunately, so far he hadn’t panned out. She still wasn’t sure of his name. Granthers or Gathers. Ganson? Janet was bad with names. Not like it mattered if she knew his name or not, she’d promised him anonymity.

  Plus he sure had a big dick.

  But she hadn’t seen him for over 24 hours. Something was up.

  When half the FBI detail had up and skedaddled from upstate New York near the prison, she knew something was up. Latest news was the convicts had been found but beyond that the FBI agents were being mum. Then they left in the dead of night, hoping to avoid tipping off reporters. She’d tracked them to this shithole of a town but had lost them on the outskirts. She had nothing to go on. Her source at first refused to divulge what was going on and now he refused to answer his phone.

  Now she’d dragged her sister with her halfway across the state on this never-ending chase for a story.

  “Come with me, it’ll be fun. See how the other half live,” she’d promised her younger sister, whose loser boyfriend had recently dumped her. Anything was better for a girl than sitting at home wishing some loser had loved her enough to stay.

  Janet navigated the narrow tree-lined streets, staying under 20 mph like the sign said. They were lucky to have a decent place to stay in tiny this village where Janet had tracked her Mr. Right-Now FBI source.

  Now if they could just find a decent bar. She needed a drink.

  *******

  The sound of a broken muffler announced the old pickup truck’s arrival into the bar’s crowded parking lot. Through the open windows, the huff-huff-huff sound filled the bar, drowning out the jukebox. A couple of young bucks looked up from their game of pool, rolled their eyes when they saw the truck.

  The engine stopped and the car’s driver stepped out, shoving his keys into the pocket of his tight jeans. His beer gut hung over the edge of his belt but everywhere else he was lean. Skinny arms stuck out of a tight white t-shirt. As he strutted across the parking lot, he caught the attention of the young ladies seated by the window. They giggled when he waved.

  The old man pulled open the door. His face was red from the sun and high blood pressure and the two whiskeys he had downed before he got into his car to drive to town. His short hair nearly matched his face, though the hair dye was a shade of red not normally seen on any human, let alone an 80-year-old man.

  At the bar, he slid onto a bar stool and banged his gnarled fist on the wood.

  “Madeline, get me a beer! P-R-O-N-T-O!”

  At the far end of the bar, Madeline the bartender glanced up from dishwashing. She rinsed the mug she was holding and dried her hands on a towel. She nodded his way.

  “Right away, Tony.” She turned to open the cooler and added, “You stinky old coot.” A few nearby patrons snickered.

  Tony shifted on a stool and tapped his finger tips on the bar, humming a tune out of sync with the 80s pop playing on the jukebox.

  “Ba, ba bum, ba, ba da dum…” Tap, tap.

  Phil ignored him. This was not the company he was seeking. The arrival of this geezer was not going to help his case. His repeated glances at the women had yielded nothing. No sign of interest.

  The young bucks finished up their game and brought the pool balls back to the bar. Madeline opened a beer, handed it to Tony, and took the rack from the young men and set it on the back bar. The young men stared at her. She stared back. “Waddaya want? You played four games, not two. I’ll hang on to your deposit. Next time, don’t try to sneak extra games when you think I’m not looking.”

  Unfazed by the chastisement, the young men shrugged and sidled outside to smoke.

  “Jerks.” Madeline wiped down the bar. “Come in here, drink water, and try to cheat me on a game of pool. Who does that?”

  Tony had no answers. He guzzled his beer and looked around the bar.

  “How’s it lookin’ tonight, son?”

  A moment too late Phil realized Tony was talking to him. He learned away , hoping he could pretend he had not heard the old man.

  But Tony, who was hard of hearing himself and figured others might be too, just repeated his question. He moved to the stool directly next to Phil.

  “How about those two fillies by the window? Haven’t seen them in here before. I dunno about you, but I could use some fresh meat. Thirty years of banging the same woman night after night, I done my time. And I’ve banged all the ladies in this town. Every one, even the married ones. But not those two. No. They’re not from around here.” He licked his lips.

  Madeline flicked a towel in Tony’s direction. “Tony, keep it down. No one wants to hear about your conquests.”

  He waved a dismissive hand at her, said, “Yes, yes.” He leaned conspiratorially over to Phil.

  “Correction. I hadn’t banged her YET. But she wants me. She’s holding out.”

  As Tony leaned in, Phil smelled the decay: the dry, dying skin, putrid breath with notes of mint, drug store cologne, failing antiperspirant - the old guy needed a shower. The strongest smell was a base note of whiskey, from this night and many nights previous. The man reeked of dying. Death has a stink that no perfume can hide.

  But he was hanging on tonight and would not leave Phil alone.

&nbs
p; “Whaddaya say, one for you and one for me? Huh?” Tony nudged Phil’s arm. “I fancy the blond. Always had a thing for blonds - these days the drapes never match the carpet. Heh heh.” His laughter morphed into a juicy coughing fit that ended as Tony hawked up a ball of phlegm, which he spit into a cocktail napkin.

  Tony guzzled his pint in large gulps, the pale liquid disappearing into his hard gut. His throat worked at a clip to keep up, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with each swallow. When the glass was nearly empty, Tony set it on the bar, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and looked at Phil. Feeling the old man’s gaze, Phil sat very still, and stared straight ahead, studying the bottles of vodka, gin, and bitters stacked in rows on the back bar. Phil figured if he didn’t engage or reply, the old guy would leave him alone, finish his beer, and drive home.

  “You don’t say much, do you? Not interested in those lovely ladies? Maybe you’re one of them city faggots that drives out this way on your day off looking for antiques. Huh? Is that what it is? Where’s your boyfriend, faggot?”

  Phil turned to look at the old man, whose mouth was open as he chewed on some left over something in his mouth. Tony’s right eye was watery and there was a chunk of yellow sleep crust in the corner of his eye.

  Phil’s face was tight. He clenched his fists and stared straight ahead. He knew if he spoke, it would be words followed by fists, and they would both be thrown out.

  “Hi fellas.” Phil felt a soft hand on the back of his neck. He turned to the sound of the sweet voice. The blond was staring at him. He saw she had deep blue eyes. She was about five foot five in heels.

  Her companion stood behind her.

  “We saw you gentleman over here and thought you needed cheering up.”

  The two women settled onto the bar stools on either side of the men.

  Phil watched the brunette fondle her long neck beer.

  “Er, so…you from around here?” he asked.

  *******

  Chapter 12

  Sarah had slept fitfully. For a long time, she had heard the FBI talking outside, their voices muted by the cabin windows. She caught a few words: ‘Santis’ and reporter. Eventually the voices quieted down. Car doors slammed as shifts changed. When she had finally drifted off, exhausted by adrenaline and worry, the voices had filtered into her dreams.

  Now, she was awake again. Wide awake. The talking outside had ceased. Perhaps the FBI agents had all finally decided to sleep. That Santis jerk had promised her he would keep her family safe and find her daughter – he was probably snoozing in the back of one of those oversized SUVs.

  It seemed too quiet. Or perhaps it was in the quit that she heard something else. She listened. Not voices. But something. The faintest protests of floorboards. Movement.

  Footsteps. In the house.

  Some nights, Max raided the kitchen for potato chips. She listened harder.

  Not Max - these footsteps were light and quick. Must be Justin or Jason. The dust of sleep still on her eyes, she blinked. Her eyes grasped at the darkness for familiar shadows.

  At the sound of breaking glass, she bolted, fumbled with the lamp on the side table, searching along the cord for the switch. Her hand found the plastic piece and she pushed it with her thumb, turning on the lamp.

  Light filled the room.

  On the floor, the stained glass lamp that had graced the family room for fifty years. It lay in pieces, the colored glass shattered in sharp edges.

  She saw the ScareIt. It stood still, appearing as a statue, except its tines twitched, the white bone catching the light from the headlights.

  In front of the ScareIt, standing guard, was Justin. His soft cheeks were flushed. He squinted at the thing before him. He didn’t turn his head but he spoke.

  “Mommy?”

  Sarah heard this. Her heart beat a double beat and then clenched, as if the cold hand of inevitable death had seized her heart for a moment, taking what in the end was rightly his, reminding Sarah that she had made this boy who must one day live without her protection.

  Sarah couldn’t breathe. She saw this afternoon, her yelling at Justin for cutting his sister’s hair. Screaming at him in her panic about Meg.

  Her Justin, who did not blink or flinch or even whimper as the ScareIt forced its sharp tines through the clothing covering Justin’s slight torso, and connected with the soft belly of the boy. The determined body resisted the intrusion for several seconds but the tines cut through his intestines, his liver and his left lung.

  Sarah watched her son crumple by the broken glass. His head landed on the purple pane, which had been smashed into hundreds of small pieces and glass dust when it hit the floor. Sarah thought absently that it would take some washing to get all those glass fragments out of his hair.

  Meg, she thought

  Where was she?

  Why had she run off? Why had she stayed away?

  This invasion was too much for Sarah, the mother of three.

  Sarah screamed as she charged the ScareIt

  The ScareIt eyed her and appeared to smile, the bones of its face shifting, like a puzzle game. As she got closer, Sarah saw that an antler grew out of its right cheek. It smelled of dust.

  As Sarah approached it, it reached for her, its tines dripping with Justin’s tissue.

  Sarah lifted the gun and aimed it point blank at the ScareIt’s torso.

  Outside, gunshots. Sarah turned. The picture window showed mayhem outside- headlights lights and men running. But in the spotlight from the helicopter she saw one man racing at her. A man whose face she knew only from TV news reports. The convict. The one the FBI had taken over her house to find.

  He was yelling as he ran, but over the noise of the low flying helo, Sarah could not hear him. She tried to read his lips but the words were not distinguishable. She thought he was saying, “curl” or “hurl”. In the back of her mind, she wondered why he was running toward her house, which was at the moment the brightest point on the hill. There was no safety for him here.

  He kept running. Sarah watched the agents behind him move and coalesce, as if dancing in slow motion.

  At the same time, she felt cold creep across her skin. The ScareIt had grabbed her wrist and was pulling her toward it. The tines seemed to sharpen as they poked her skin.

  The running man had reached the window. He looked straight at Sarah. At her hand that held the gun. He was still screaming.

  A sharp sound and the man’s face disappeared from the window. A second man stood behind Kyle. Santis. Holding his gun.

  Santis had followed the convict’s mad dash toward the house. As Kyle ran, Santis couldn’t get a good shot. Until Kyle stopped at the window.

  He would explain later that he felt Kyle was an immediate threat to the family. But now he stared in the window at Sarah and the ScareIt.

  In the bright kitchen light, the ScareIt shone white and clean, as if it were bleached bone on a deserted beach. It stood six inches over Sarah.

  Sarah stared at the ScareIt’s tines on her arm. The tines did not hurt her or perhaps she was now numb from fear that could not feel pain. She looked at the ScareIt’s head.

  Was the light playing tricks on her or were the bones of the head moving, as if tectonic plates shifting.

  Yes, she was certain, the ScareIt’s face was shifting, the bones changing color, from white to grey as the matter moved. Sarah thought she could almost see the bones cells flowing over each other, streaming down the shoulders of the ScareIt.

  A small hole appeared on the front of the ScareIt’s head. Sarah watched as the cells flowed even more quickly away from the hole. The hole grew in diameter. Sarah felt drawn to the hole.

  The hole in the boney plate grew larger. It was dark inside, which meant that it was not solid bone. There was space. Perhaps it was a hollow cavity.

  The cells continued to stream away from the hole in the bone plate of the ScareIt’s head. In a matter of seconds, the hole was now three inches in diameter, then four, then five.


  Sarah’s heart stopped. She felt it stop, she was sure she did, though she remained standing and alive, staring at the ScareIt, staring at its bony head.

  It was a hollow casement. As the bone plates had shifted aside, like curtains on a stage, it had revealed its main event.

  Sarah stared at the human face inside the skull.

  It was the face of a sleeping girl.

  Her girl.

  Her Meg.

  Meg’s eyes opened wide. She stared past Sarah, the whites of her eyes shining bright in the darkness of the ScareIt’s skull cavity.

  She screamed, “Help me!”

  Sarah fainted, her arm still held by the ScareIt.

  The sheets of bone reformed, closing the facial cavity. The ScareIt dropped Sarah’s arm and paused as if watching her. Then it turned, slipping out to the screen porch and away into the welcoming night.

  *******

  Look for Thirst Part III March 1, 2017