“Yeah, a bit. Millionaire? Lived in them richy rich houses.” Howie couldn’t imagine needing seven thousand square feet of living space. Damn near ridiculous, if you asked him. Nobody did ask, though, especially the richy riches.
“I found him,” she said, and finished her glass in one large gulp.
Howie took it, without question, and refilled it. He set the full pint down in front of her. Howie had heard a lot of shit in his day, but finding a mangled up millionaire's corpse out in the desert was something he had not heard before.
Howie shifted uncomfortably from side to side as Jessica told him what happened to her up in Wasp Canyon. Imagining some man-eater chasing down this poor girl did not sit right with him. Not one bit.
“Did you know him?” she asked.
“Cameron Jasper?” Howie had been thinking about getting chased through the desert, and how he would not have fared as well as this young lady. He could barely run to the bathroom when nature was calling a little too loudly—he wouldn’t even make it a hundred yards in the desert. Hell, not even fifty. “Naw, Lindy’s don’t attract them fancy fellas too often.”
Jessica smiled. Howie couldn’t understand how a smile could look so sad. She looked like she had been to hell and back.
“Do you know of anything like this happening before?” she asked.
“People getting attacked on hiking trails? Well yeah, I s’pose it happens from time to time. We got our fair share of scary critters out there,” he said, thinking about mountain lions, bobcats, coyotes, and maybe the occasional black bear. “I hear more about them snakes, though, more than anything else. Rattlesnake bites. Now those can get a fellar into a pinch real fast.”
“Yeah, you gotta watch out for those.” She took a sip of beer. “You ever hear about someone getting attacked by something . . . different?”
“Different how?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
She looked up at him with large, pleading eyes. “Like not from around here. Like not your normal predators. Take away the bears and mountain lions and rattlesnakes. Have you ever heard about somebody getting attacked by something . . . else?”
Howie felt growing disquiet in his gut. He didn’t like where this was going. “Well dear, I don’t really know anything about that.” He chose his words carefully, although he was never too good at keeping a poker face. It wasn’t in his nature to lie. “I just know you were helluva lucky girl to have gotten outta there.” His mouth smiled, but his eyes didn’t—and she knew it. Awe fuck, he thought, she knows somethin’. Awe Christ, not this shit again.
“Something like this has happened before, hasn’t it?”
Howie glanced around the bar, which was still empty. It wouldn’t be for long, though. He didn’t want anyone else hearing what he was about to say. He couldn’t lie to this girl, though—it looked like she already had an inkling that some funny business was going on. And it’s not like he had all that much to tell, anyway. It’s not like it happened to him, was it? He just happened to be around when it did happen.
“I don’t know exactly what happened before—the newspapers only said so much. And it’s not like I’m a big news buff, anyway. Mostly I heard men talking ‘bout it here at the bar. I was sitting on your side of the counter back in those days—my buddy Chuck was runnin’ the place back then. This was, oh, thirty—maybe thirty-five—years back. Can’t remember exactly, all I do remember is it rained like a son of a bitch that summer.”
Jessica perked up at that, as he suspected she would. It was raining like a son of a bitch this summer, too. Sure there were plenty of summers where Tucson saw its fair share of rain—even more than a fair share. Them monsoons brought all that moisture in from Mexico, or the Pacific—one of those two. But this summer was getting a metric fuckton of rain, and Howie remembered that summer all those years ago was high on the metric fuckton-o-meter as well.
“It was one of them El Niño’s, or La Niña’s, or whatever. I don’t remember which one does what. All I know is it rained like cats and dogs every damn day that summer. Got those palo verde beetles all over the place—those big black ones that come out when it’s humid. God, I hate them things.
“Anyway, part ways through that summer some of the fellas in here—the regulars that worked at the mine or on one of them construction crews—they started telling stories about their buddies getting kilt. And not normal kilt, like from a machine accident or somethin’, but kilt by some sorta animal. And it didn’t happen while they were at work, always seemed to happen at night. The guys here at the bar said they went to work like normal and then realized that one of their buddies didn’t show up that day. So they’d go check on ‘em after they clocked out. These fellas . . .” Howie paused, shaking his head. He did not like thinking about that summer, not one bit. “These fellas,” he continued, “they found their buddies all tore up. Musta happened the night before ‘cause they were long since dead by the time they got there in the afternoon. And these guys work early shifts—we’re talkin’ four or five in the AM. So when these guys didn’t show for their shifts, we gotta assume they got kilt earlier than that, sometime in the night.”
Jessica looked like she was going to be sick, and he didn’t think it was from the beer. Howie kept talking; he wanted this particular story over and done with. “These poor fellas, they had been sliced and diced three ways from Sunday. Authorities kept saying it was a rogue cougar that did it. But I never thought so. Cougars can be mean, but I don’t think they would tear up a man for no good reason. Most of the dead fellas weren’t even eaten, not much anyways. Just kilt.
“I forget how many. I listened to the news every now and then, but mostly what I found out I heard right here. These workin’ fellas sure can talk, especially when they are feeling blue and they got a few drinks under their belts. I remember one guy saying his buddy had his head torn clean off.”
“What happened?” Jessica asked, her hands grasping the edge of the bar top.
“‘Nothin’. Not much, anyway. Went on all summer. Maybe once a week, if not more. There was talk about some serial killer, though I do recall the news people saying no to that one. They said serial killers like young women, not hard-workin’ construction crew types. That’s another thing—these fellas were strong. Worked with their hands for a livin’. I don’t know any cougar or other animal ‘round these parts that could kill that many strong men. It’s not like they were old, some were as young as you. Younger, I reckon. They all died just the same, though.”
“Why didn’t anyone do anything about it? I mean, where were the police during all this?”
“Well, they were there, I’m sure. But you’re forgetting somethin’. These were workin’ men. I doubt even half of ‘em had their green cards. They all lived in the same general area, down south and to the west of town, near them Tucson Mountains. Not the best area of town. And they sure as hell weren’t millionaires. People don’t care nearly as much when a miner gets kilt, not really. I’m sure the families were torn up about it, but as for the news and the rest of town, they lost interest as soon as they got their hands on the gory details. No longer interestin’ after they satisfied their curiosity.”
Howie still felt bad about those men all those years ago, getting forgotten after cashing their checks in such an awful way. He didn’t care much for the police not trying harder to capture the animal—or person—responsible, neither. Those men deserved just as much help as them millionaires up in Wasp Canyon do.
“So nothing was done then?”
“Not really. Police never found any leads. Never found a rogue cougar or any other animal that coulda done it. And when the rain stopped, so did the killings. By Halloween, it seemed everybody had damn near forgot about it. I’d bet my bottom dollar those families didn’t forget, though. Or the fellas that found ‘em.”
There was a jingle at the door, and both Howie and Jessica jumped at the sound. A man in construction boots and a sweat-stained T-shirt walked in, heading for one of the barstool
s. Sweat was beaded across his brow, and some was trickling down from his hairline. “Tall one, Howie,” he called across the room.
“Hold your horses, Brandon!” Howie called back.
Jessica watched as the sweaty man sat down at the bar. “One last thing, Howie,” she said. “You were saying this all happened in the same area—down south somewhere. You said it was near some mountains?”
“Yeah, the Tucson Mountains. Tucson has mountains on all four sides—pretty unique in that respect. You got the Santa Catalinas and the Tortolitas up north, the Rincons to the east, Santa Ritas way down south, and then the Tucson ones to the west.”
“And all these guys that were attacked lived near the Tucson Mountains?”
“Yeah, pretty damn close, I reckon. I think that town was just south of the mountains. Why?”
Jessica looked at Howie, her eyes widening.
“Just like them millionaires in Wasp Canyon live right up close to the Santa Catalinas?” he asked. After making the connection, he thought, Well shit on stick. This is gonna be a damn shitshow all over again. He sighed and shook his head, wishing the damn rain would stop already. He rather just buy them new air conditioners and not have it rain one more damn day this summer.
“How much I owe ya, Howie?” Jessica asked, stumbling as she stood up. Howie wasn’t sure if it was the beer or that walking boot, or maybe a combination of the two.
“Not a dime, sweetie,” Howie said. “How about a bottle of water for the road and I call you a cab?”
“Yes to the water, no to the cab.” Jessica held up her phone. “I have Uber. Is it ok if I leave my car here ‘til tomorrow?”
“That’s what parking lots are for,” Howie said as he reached under the bar and brought a bottle of water back up. He set it down on the bar.
“Thank you so much for the beer,” she said. And then quieter: “And for the information.”
“Promise me one thing, darlin’, before you go.”
“What’s that?” Jessica asked as she grabbed the bottle of water.
“You take care of yourself. And stay the hell away from Wasp Canyon.”
“Absolutely, Howie,” Jessica said, smiling with her mouth but not her eyes.
Chapter 30
Instead of heading home, Jessica directed her Uber driver to the Kokopelli Public Library. She knew she could do all the research she wanted to do on her laptop at home, but since she was still staying with her mom, she thought it best to use one of the library computers. She also wanted to avoid the endless questions regarding her Dr. Wyatt appointment for as long as possible.
Jessica arrived at the library at quarter to five, right along with the rain. She pulled herself out of the Uber driver’s Nissan Juke and took care to not step in any puddles on her way up to the library’s entrance. She didn’t want her boot getting soaked. A heavy, water-logged CAM boot sounded even worse than a dry one. She could hear her steps echo in the alcove as she made her way to the sliding glass door. She had managed to keep the boot fairly dry, but her sneaker was another story—it made a squishy noise each time she stepped down on the cement. Squish, clunk. Squish, clunk.
The door slid open automatically as she neared the entrance. Jessica walked into the hushed world that is any library: muffled whispers, stifled giggles, and pages ruffling. She squish-clunked her way to one of the computer workstations and sat down.
Her phone beeped as she pulled the chair up to the desk. She had three messages: two from her mother and one from Claire. Both of her mother’s messages asked where she was and when she was getting home. The first also asked how her therapy appointment went. The message from Claire said Beauty and the Beast sounded perfect for tomorrow and that she would be there after her shift was done at the salon.
Jessica silenced the phone and set it down on the desk. She logged onto the computer and clicked on the Google Chrome icon. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as she tried to decide what exactly she was going to research.
Although Detective Moser’s explanation had been compelling, Jessica couldn’t shake the feeling that something else—something worse—had attacked her in Wasp Canyon that day. Despite the gnawing feeling in her gut, Jessica had been ready to give up on the idea and accept the inevitable—it was just a sick bear, her eyes were playing tricks on her, she’s just a confused, grieving girl—after being discredited by Kilburn, Moser, and even Dr. Wyatt.
But then she heard Howie’s story about the monsoon murders all those years back. She saw the fear in his eyes, and that felt a lot more real than Moser’s explanation ever did. Jessica decided it was time to stop listening to everyone else’s theories and start listening to her own instincts. She was the one out there and the only one who saw it—saw it and survived anyway. Deep down she knew it was something more. And that it was still there . . . waiting.
Jessica stared at the colorful Google letters and the blinking cursor in the search bar. She decided to begin with the murders that happened back in—what did Howie say? Thirty years ago? That would make it the late eighties, or maybe the early nineties. She could hear fingers tapping on neighboring keyboards, feet softly padded across the carpeted floor behind her, and the printer humming as it printed out copies for one of the library’s occupants. An occasional rumble of thunder grumbled from outside.
It didn’t take long to find articles referencing the bloody summer Howie had mentioned. The deaths began in July of 1987 and continued through the end of August of that same year. The police believed a total of seventeen deaths were linked to the case, all the victims being killed in a similar fashion: all at night, all in the same area of town, and all in the same gruesome manner. Broken down, it ended up being eleven men, four women, and—worst of all—two children.
The victims were mostly found outdoors—although the later murders happened inside the victims’ residences. One man was walking home in the early hours of the morning when he was attacked, his body found along the roadside the following day. He was last seen alive at a tavern a mile down the road. A few men were found in the backyards of their homes. Police theorized that they heard something outside during the night and went out to investigate. The wife of one of the victims told police she was awoken by a banging sound outside and sent her husband out to check for burglars, which were common in that part of town. She heard her husband screaming and called the police. They were too late.
Jessica read the articles with unwavering interest. It made her queasy, but she needed to know what she was dealing with. She thought of Cameron, his stomach wide open and his face gone. The teeth looking too white surrounded by all that red. And his eyes, still intact, staring up at the sky.
The last two slayings occurred indoors. One man appeared to be attacked outside and tried to seek safety inside his home, but whatever it was followed him in and finished the job. The final attack—one that Jessica had trouble reading all the way through—involved the deaths of a family of four. A husband, wife, and their two children were killed in the early hours of the morning on August 29th of that year. The husband was found in the kitchen, the wife in the bedroom, and the two children appeared to have tried to take shelter in a closet. The closet door was torn open and one child had been removed from the closet and killed. The other was killed inside the closet itself.
The beers from earlier felt like a lump of sludge inside Jessica’s stomach. The article went on to describe the bloody scene, and said that the police had no leads on the case. Just like all the others, Jessica thought.
Mountain lions were hunted down, along with coyotes, and even one stray dog. People were panicked and the police were unable to offer any solutions. And then the murders stopped, just as suddenly as they arrived. People later speculated that the animal involved—probably rabid, although no proof of that ever surfaced—had simply moved on or died.
And that was it. No more murders, so no more problem. Jessica wiped at her eyes, thinking of the children in the closet. This shit is not going to happen again, sh
e vowed to herself.
She started looking up geographical maps of Tucson and the surrounding area. She sent page after page to the printer, getting up each time to collect what she had printed. She didn’t want anybody going to get their own print job and seeing what she was up to. Each time she stood from her chair, her left ankle screamed at her. She had forgotten to bring any pain medicine with her when she left home that day—although she doubted she should be taking any after those beers anyway.
Jessica lost track of time. She had printed more documents than she had intended to, once having to go to the front counter to inform the librarian that the paper supply for the printer needed to be replenished. She was engrossed in her latest research when her phone buzzed. Jessica finished the paragraph she was reading and searched for the phone. She found it buried under the papers she had printed.
Her mother again. Jessica answered the phone, told her mom she would be home in half an hour—yes, lasagna would be fine—and hung up. Jessica collected the various papers she had printed on the library’s industrial sized printer and logged out of the computer. She thought she had enough information to go on, at least for now.
Her boot clunked as she crossed the lobby, and a few fastidious studiers looked up from their books with disapproval. When they saw the noise was coming from a disabled person they quickly returned their gazes to their books. It’s interesting how people avert their eyes when they see someone who is disabled, Jessica thought. They want to see all the carnage up front, but they don't want to make eye contact with the aftermath.
Jessica walked through the sliding glass doors and into the darkening gloom. It would have been sunset if the sun had a chance to peek out from behind the heavy, gray clouds. Instead of brilliant colors across the sky, the gray just became darker as the sun slipped below the horizon. She headed toward the car that was waiting out front, headlights on and windshield wipers whisking from side to side.
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