by Peter Idone
Logan remembered having Christmas dinner the first year of their marriage with Jill’s family at their postcolonial Federalist mansion, or however they referred to it. His parents were also invited. God, it was dreadful: the veiled putdowns Fowler made of Logan’s father and mother at the table under a demeanor of holiday cheer and tipsy good nature. Somewhere between the main course and dessert, Big Bill referred to the Station residents as “common.” It was pretty obvious who he was aiming the slight at. Logan’s mother admonished Bill, saying how he had put them at a disadvantage, having them in his own home for a holiday dinner, where the act of offering food to guests was an act of friendship and respect. At least that’s how Monika Logan always interpreted it, how she was raised. “Of course,” Logan’s mother went on, “if we were on the street, then I’d have no compunction about having it out with you, Bill. You know us folks from the Station. It’s either guns or knives and nothing in between.” Then she’d winked at Big Bill, which really threw him off balance. He’d laughed heartily, admiring Mrs. Logan’s pluck. He was obviously soused, and Phyllis was trying to smooth everything over in her affected, detached manner. Needless to say, his parents were not inclined to accept another invitation from the Fowlers, not that one was ever forthcoming. “Those people are crap,” is how Logan’s father described Bill and Phyllis Fowler. It was strangely easy for Logan and Jill to avoid the subject and split Thanksgiving and Christmas between both sets of in-laws. Adaptation for the sake of marital peace, Logan figured. But an undercurrent existed, and it only added to their eventual estrangement.
As a couple, he and Jill had had more than just a few good times with each other. Actually, for the most part, he was pretty content, at least for the first three or four years. The sex was great and there was always a lot of it. Now, Logan had to admit, it was what he missed the most since he hadn’t been getting any lately. Jill was always down for doing something different. They had once made a DVD of their bedroom antics, at Jill’s instigation. “Joe and Jill’s Hardcore Extravaganza” they had titled it, an assortment of sex acts they had filmed for laughs over several sessions. Jill had definitely enjoyed herself acting out on camera and did not hold back on how torrid and abandoned she could become. He wished he still had the DVD, but it had disappeared. Well, not really. He had kept it in the den bookcase along with other CDs and DVDs. It was in a simple, unmarked, white sleeve. A couple of months after they had split up, before the divorce became official, he had come home late one night. He could smell her. Jill had been in the house. He looked around and didn’t notice anything glaring that was missing. And why should she take anything? They had both agreed to split amicably, and anything she wanted she could have, as far as he was concerned. Instinctively, he’d looked through the bookcase. The DVD was gone. That’s all she came for. He guessed that allowing their former sex life to be summoned at the click of a remote was more than she could bear, so she took it. Probably the idea that he might masturbate to the disc—after all it was homemade porno—was a thought she could only loathe. He never said anything other than to call her and say he would like any keys to the house returned to him. He hadn’t the money to change the locks. He had to leave a message on her phone; she never picked up when it was him. Several days later, a small, bubble-wrapped manila envelope was delivered in the mail. The keys to the house were inside.
Thinking about Jill only made him depressed, so he returned to the futile job search. He should have been a nurse or a fucking accountant, Logan thought, judging by the ample listings in those fields. What do they need accountants for anyway? Pay people to record how much money you’re losing or don’t have to begin with? It was absurd. He tired of the quest rather quickly and decided to type in Chris Glass to see what would come up. Christopher L. Glass, attorney; C. R. Glass, DDS; even a photographer by the same name. He went after an obscure link, a blog site, and sensed he had hit pay dirt or at least close to it. Basically it was a rant by some blogger with the handle of Chuthulu @ Large describing Chris Glass “as the biggest purveyor of disinformation on the internet for nearly a decade…With his website ‘The Dark Bureau’ Glass had a small factory cranking out indiscriminate half-truths, myth, folklore and downright lies…he helped steer the weak minded, the committed UFO cultists and conspiracy enthusiasts in the direction his government handlers wanted—namely to keep them preoccupied and muddle headed within the confines of their own fragile fantasy world. He’s a psych op, always has been and always will be. Now it seems Glass has developed a conscience. The real truth of the matter is Glass no longer knows what is real and what isn’t anymore. He can no longer keep track of his own lies. His government employers—Military INTEL, D.I.A., D.O.D, and CIA are subsidizing him to do nothing, like a farmer not to grow wheat, like back in the old days. Over the past few years word has gotten around that he’s a disinformation artist and some of the kooks he has mind-fucked are literally out for his blood. Website closed down (allegedly by the government because he was so close to the truth) speaking engagements and seminars cancelled (afraid to show up in public in all likelihood to avoid a possible assassin lurking in the crowd) whereabouts unknown…”
The blog meandered on for several more paragraphs in the same vein, hostile and, Logan sensed, disappointed in tone. As for anything Glass had written or produced via the Net, it wasn’t there, although the corporate control of content by his service provider was most likely responsible. He was pictured in photographs with other authors and investigators of the UFO/ paranormal scene at conferences that had taken place over the years in Chicago, New York, Boston, even Las Vegas. Nothing he had said or written was mentioned on these sites; for all anybody knew, Glass could have been nothing more than a member of the audience. He certainly hadn’t given a presentation.
Logan had had enough for one evening, and it was starting to get late. Whoever Chris Glass was and what he wrote about hadn’t made much of a dent in the cultural zeitgeist. There certainly wasn’t any dissemination of articles written by him on other sites. Logan’s job situation and his finances, or lack thereof, put him into some bad space. He shut down the computer and unfurled the bedroll and sleeping bag.
As he lay in the darkened den, his mind wandered over the events of the past couple of days. He had gotten no closer to the truth about what sort of animal killed Tara and, more importantly, who took her remains. It was all so weird, like a strange dream you wake up from feeling hung-over. He’d met a couple of interesting personalities along the way, including his chance meeting of Henry Bock. If that hadn’t occurred, he would have been even further from gaining any insight into what had recently taken place. Maybe this was just the beginning of a path he had to take, and not knowing where it would lead was part of the anticipation. Thinking of Derek Pryce certainly caused him to chuckle. He was unquestionably an original. So Natalie Schneider had been to the Pryce residence to see Henry. He wonder what he had to offer her, or whether it was the other way around. His own meeting with her had been a trifle underwhelming. Why the reticence in giving out her phone number? Maybe she was afraid he’d call and ask her on a date, which he probably would. Natalie then became the focus of erotic images that floated through his brain. He grew tumescent as he imagined what distortions her face would make while going down on him.
Eventually his thoughts shifted. He went over every aspect of Thursday night, when Tara was killed, and especially the look of that creature staring in his face as he lay on the ground, those two burning pools of red—its eyes—boring into his core. “What are you?” he said aloud in the dark. Keeping his gun close by, he eventually fell asleep.
11
Logan awoke late on Sunday morning. Outside, the sky was overcast, a dense pileup of gray clouds and still not a drop of rain. How could it stay like this for weeks on end? he wondered. Dead leaves scattered across the backyard. There was a wind, but the temperature hovered around the mid-fifties. He kept the lights turned off and the heat low despite the gloomy mood of the house, primar
ily to save money. Even the price of water had skyrocketed, and he had to monitor how much he used.
Tara being gone made him even more depressed. He threatened to go out for a long walk after he had some breakfast, but the thought of traipsing around the dismal neighborhood filled him with dread. Like some experimental subject, he got back online to do the job search thing; the thought ricocheted around his head that repeating the same act over and over was just circling the drain. He read for a while and then turned on the television to watch a game. It was college football, not something he was all that into, but at least there was color and activity. As he lay on the couch, he still thought about taking that walk, hoping motivation would strike at any moment.
The next thing he knew, the phone was ringing. He had fallen asleep and the game was already in its final quarter. He didn’t recognize the number on the screen; the area code wasn’t local. He picked up. “Hello.”
“Joe? This is Natalie Schneider.”
“What happened to you the other night? You disappeared.”
“Never mind that now. How far away are you from Railroad Avenue?”
“Railroad Avenue? It’s about four blocks away. Why?”
“Look, I’ve been following some transmissions. There is some kind of action prepared to take place over by you.”
Transmissions? Actions? What was she talking about? Logan’s brain was a little numb. It felt as though his scalp had fallen asleep. “What’s going on, Natalie?”
“Are you familiar with some electronics recycling business on Railroad Avenue?”
“I know the place. It’s not that far down Railroad. What’s going on?”
“The Tacticals are preparing to make a sweep of that area. Local Essex police will be establishing a cordon from Hamilton all the way down to Kraven Street. All traffic will be rerouted. I’m headed over there to see what’s going on, but there’s a good chance I might not make it through. I was wondering if you could help me out and head over there.”
“Sure, but…”
“There isn’t much time. The area will be sewn up tight in a matter of minutes. A call came in not half an hour ago from the E-Re-pair Re-cycle. Somebody there called the local police nine-one-one that a strange animal, a werewolf-type creature was spotted in the junkyard. Apparently this witness sounded freaked out. I thought maybe it has something to do with what you saw. Now all the cops and Tacticals are mobilized.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Let’s try to meet up. Where would be good place?”
“My address is seventy-nine Hamilton Road. It’s a white asbestos-shingle house midblock. Come from the Jefferson Avenue direction. It will be your best chance of avoiding any checkpoints that might be in place.”
“If all else fails, I’ll meet you there, but I’ll try to get as close as I can. I want to get a picture of just how far these guys are willing to go in capturing this thing.”
Or killing it, Logan thought. “I’m on my way. With any luck we’ll meet up later.”
He hung up the phone, pulled on his work boots, and grabbed a coat. He took his cell phone. He remembered giving Natalie both his landline and mobile numbers. The cell had a few dollars left for a couple of calls. The other thing he brought along was the Ruger. If that dog was nearby, and he had every reason to believe it was, then if he had a clear shot, he was going to take it and to hell with the consequences.
Once outside he ran across the street and walked down to Fourth Avenue, where he turned left. He worked his way toward Railroad, turning right onto Eighth Street, then down Fifth Avenue to Ninth Street. Nobody was around, but he heard sirens in the distance and saw flashing emergency lights farther down the road in the direction of Kraven. He thought hard about how he could access Railroad Avenue from this direction. He would have to cut through a yard, down somebody’s driveway. Then it dawned on him. Over on Tenth Street was a house that belonged to a German family his mother’s family knew. The German side of her family. They all knew each other. The Heinrichs. The old man was a designer or architect and had built a beautiful handcrafted house reminiscent of a large Bavarian cottage, Logan assumed. Both Mr. and Mrs. Heinrich had passed away, and the house had remained empty since the daughter moved out. He remembered seeing her during his father’s wake. She had a real German name, Lisle or Gisele or something. She had mentioned she was trying to move, and when he went by the house not too long ago, it looked unlived in. As it did now, when he strolled over. Overgrown and in need of repairs. It was too bad, since it had been a very well-cared-for house with well-manicured plantings when Mr. and Mrs. Heinrich were alive.
Logan walked down the length of the driveway to the garage built of the same dark timber as the house. There was a wire-strand fence attached to steel posts only four feet high. It couldn’t keep out anything. Beyond a narrow strip of overgrowth, he was on Railroad Avenue, a two-lane side street that ran parallel to the tracks and was flanked by small industries of various degrees of productivity. Most of the businesses were wrecking and junkyards, supply depots, and welding and auto repair shops.
He had come out by a cement supply yard, a small operation with a midsized concrete silo that was stained and showing cracks. It was all fenced in, as were all the businesses in the area except for the junkyard. On the other side of the fence, two dogs barked like mad. German shepherds with mangy coats and bred for meanness. This area seemed to be a waste ground where everyone discarded their automobile parts that were worthless as salvage: piles of old mufflers, transmissions, and engine blocks. The soil was churned, dark, and mixed with oil and grease. He was about a hundred yards from the electronics recycling and repair building, a one-story cinderblock rectangle in a small clearing amid all the piles of junked metal and car parts.
The Tacticals were already here. Logan ducked low behind a mound of obscure metal piping and engine parts. It was a squad of three, all helmeted with face shields, wearing full-body armor and handling assault rifles. A dense plume of orange signal smoke wafted into the air some distance away. It looked as though it was near the diner at the junction over by Hamilton Street. After the squad had passed, Logan made his way over to the recycling building, keeping an eye on his immediate surroundings. The last thing he wanted was to be taken into custody and spend the next twenty-four hours, or however long it took, to explain to this bunch that he wasn’t a threat. He saw that some onlookers had come out of their houses to see what all the trouble was about. Heavy armored patrol carriers were racing down Railroad, as were cop cars, even county police vehicles, all with flashing lights. The small crowd was being herded and dispersed back to their homes.
Logan scrambled over to a junked car stripped of doors, tires, windshields, hood, and engine. He looked again before making his next move. The Tactical squad that had just passed was still in sight, just several hundred yards away, and more would soon follow. In a crouching run, he made it to the door of the recycling building. It was an aluminum-framed glass door that swung inward. It was open, but he did knock. Still, he wasn’t about to wait for the owner to answer; he let himself in. Standing erect, he stood to the side and looked through the dirt-smeared glass. He sensed a presence behind him and turned. A worn-looking old man with long, white hair stood with a 12-gauge Mossberg not quite pointed at Logan’s midsection, but close enough to take seriously. This was Pete Sutter, Logan knew. He had done business here before, although it had been a while. Sutter wouldn’t know who he was. “Easy with that riot gun, old timer.”
“Are you with those clowns outside?”
“No, I—”
“Then if not, what the fuck are you doing in here? We’re closed!”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to trespass, but the Response Team and Essex police are shutting down the area and rounding up everyone on the street. I live in the neighborhood and came out to see what all the fuss was about. I’m not going to cause any trouble. I just didn’t want to get arrested or detained.”
“OK, OK. I called the cop
s, but I never expected these hysterics. A bunch of storm troopers showed up and ordered me to confine myself to my quarters for the duration of operations, or else. Or else what, they didn’t bother to explain.”
“They make up the rules for their own convenience. Why did you have to call the cops?”
“I saw a goddamn werewolf, that’s why. Damn thing nearly gave me a heart attack, it was so big and ugly. Stood on the hood of that junked car right outside looking at me, daring me to come out and chase him away. It had the ugliest face on an animal I’ve ever seen. More like a demon. Its eyes glowed. I’m not imagining any of it, I tell you. I went for my shotgun and called the cops. It was already gone when I got to the door. I wanted to kill the thing for no other reason than how it looked.”
“I believe you, Mr. Sutter. I’ve seen it myself. It killed my dog three nights ago.”
“It did? What did you do?”
“I called the cops, but there wasn’t this kind of reaction. There were Tactical vehicles, unmarked cars mostly, driving around the neighborhood, but nothing like this.” It was all Logan wanted to say about his experience. He refrained from mentioning anything about Tara’s remains being stolen later that night. “Would you mind if I stay out of sight for a while? I really don’t want to spend the rest of my Sunday in a holding tank.”
Another squad of Tacticals ran by, headed for the far end of the wrecking yard. They weren’t interested in the recycling center. “Let’s get away from this door in case they see us,” Sutter said. “Come on in back.”
