by Wayne Tripp
“What a bitch! That woman’s got a serious stick up her ass.” Eric picked up a crooked branch and whacked the nearest tree.
“Eric, that’s no way to talk. What would Abby think?” Poking his shoulder, Jamie scolded the teenager, but there was a comrade’s twinkle in his eyes. “Actually, I have to agree with you. She is a bitch. Let’s sit and rest a minute. We’ve been at this for hours. There’s a dry log over there.”
Laughing like old buddies, they sat together on the log, letting some of the fatigue slip from their tired muscles. Eric reached into the forest green knapsack he always wore and produced a couple of sandwiches and a brace of sodas.
“Eric, you brought a snack?”
“Sorry they’re not beers. That wouldn’t be smart, you being a cop and all. Sis said you wouldn’t think to pack anything. I figured ham and cheese for you. I’ve got the Tuna.”
“You are amazing. Why didn’t I think of this? I’m starved! As for the beer–soda is fine. And you are just a bit underage after all.”
“Be prepared, that’s my motto. I could get the beers, you know”
“I’ll bet you could. Randy Blackstone, right? You stay away from that creep, Eric. He doesn’t care how many innocent people suffer because of drunk drivers as long as he can turn a profit. As if Grim Island roads aren’t bad enough when you’re sober–just stay away from him, okay?”
“Sure, Officer MacLeod. You sound like my dad used to.”
“Don’t you think it’s about time you called me Jamie? If we’re going to be friends, let’s not be so formal, okay?”
“Friends? You want to be my friend?”
“Well, yeah. You’re a pretty good guy, Eric, and we’ve got quite a bit in common. You make a mean ham and cheese too.” Jamie poked Eric’s arm, smiled, and took a bite of his sandwich.
“You mean Miss Rodriguez?” Eric pushed up the nose piece of his glasses, and looked directly at MacLeod, all suddenly dead serious.
Jamie took a healthy gulp of his Sierra Mist before he answered. When he did, all the joking camaraderie had gone out of his voice too. When he spoke, he seemed…lifeless.
“No, not Miss Rodriguez. She and I…well, she won’t see me anymore. She can’t stand the thought of me from what I hear.”
Eric thought of her mumbling MacLeod’s name, and crying when she thought no one was looking. He also thought of principal Sweetling, and his sweaty hands. He was so tempted to say something to MacLeod.
“That’s right–you’re seeing Kat–Miss O’Hara now. She's nice too. You know…you’re costing Abby money, Jamie.”
“Money? How’s that?”
“Because since you and Miss O’Hara have been seeing each other, she doesn’t have Abby watch her kid anymore. Apparently Brian hasn’t been coming around. I guess you’ve laid that ghost to rest so to speak.”
He’d certainly had laid someone, though there’d been no rest involved. “Actually, Eric, I wanted to talk about us. You and me. This island.” He saw Eric pale, and look around to see if they were alone. Jamie knew Eric knew exactly what he meant. No more beating around the bush.
“Eric, you told me you know what I am. I want you to tell me, and be honest. I’ll know if you’re not. What exactly do you think I am? Don’t worry, I won’t get angry or anything.”
“You’re a shifter.” Eric shoved up his glasses yet again, his head darting nervously side to side looking for eavesdroppers. Finding none, he volunteered more. “Pretty bad-ass werewolf from what I saw. And…I know it upsets you. You don’t seem to like it much. But I guess there’s nothing you can do.”
“A werewolf!” Jamie shook his head and began laughing. “You watch way too many horror movies, kid.” Jamie smirked, making light of the whole thing as he began pacing around, but his voice failed to hide a guarded nervousness. “Just what would make you think that, Eric? Is that why you gave me the meat sandwich? Do I have a uni-brow or hairy palms? Bushy tail I've forgotten to hide? Did I drool or do I have a look of hunger in my eyes?”
“Yes, to the look in your eyes. Not the drool, tail, or uni-brow.” Eric gulped, but true to his Boy Scout training, he’d been expecting this; he was prepared. “I saw you. The first night you brought Miss O’Hara home really late. She was kind of pissed at you. I guess she wanted to stay with you, or something. Anyway, she was really loud about it, woke me up. I looked outside. After she came inside, you just stood there a couple minutes. The moon was pretty bright that night. I saw you start to change. Christ, it looks like it hurts like hell.”
“I thought I sensed movement in your apartment. Saw the curtain moving; I wondered if anyone had seen me. Obviously, you did.”
Never able to forget the bone-snapping, muscle ripping pain, all Jamie could say was, “It does. More than you can imagine.” The kid knew; he’d seen. Why deny it? Jamie was looking for allies. This kid was bright, eager, and willing to believe. How much did he know already? How much could Jamie tell him? The truth--all of it? “Who else knows? Eric, did you tell Abby?”
“No! Never!”
“How about Miss Rodriguez? D-does she know?”
“No. Of course not.” Deep inside himself, Eric sensed the wriggling worm that couldn’t wait to point out that here was a weapon to keep Jamie MacLeod far away from Miss Rodriguez forever. Did he want that? Wasn't MacLeod preferable to Sweetling?
“Thank You.”
Jamie folded inward as he said that, dropping his voice to a strong whisper. For the first time, Eric realized just how much Jamie’s affliction troubled him, getting a glimpse of how much the man despised himself. In that instant, he felt a brotherly bond begin to grow, and realized that werewolf or not, Jamie MacLeod was someone he admired, someone he enjoyed being around. Deep down he knew he would never use Jamie’s dark secret to hurt him.
“So you are a werewolf. Wow–I’ve got a million questions. How did it happen? Does the change hurt—it appeared to the night I watched you. When you change–would you hurt Abby and me. Miss O’Hara or Miss Rodriguez?”
“All of you would be in danger.” Jamie looked around, mirroring Eric’s earlier caution. “Don’t worry, there are meds.”
“A cure? That’s great! Why haven’t you used it?”
“Not a cure!”
For several seconds there was dead silence.
“There is no cure. God, I wish there was.” Jamie grew quiet again, staring off into space, seeing nothing or maybe seeing way too many ghosts. Eric thought he saw tears glistening in the man’s eyes. “Eric, thanks for keeping this just between us. You can’t imagine how much I appreciate this”
“Hey, you lazy bums! Get off your backsides and come help us find this damned kid!” Julie Parker popped up so suddenly it was as though she’d risen right out of the swamp. Catching the two of them resting, she couldn’t wait to lash out with her barbed tongue. “We’re all tired–you don’t see us goofing off. MacLeod–I expected better from you.”
The two males smirked, shook their heads, and rose slowly to rejoin the hunt. Jamie used the moment to whisper that his secret wasn’t at all what he needed to talk about. He was hoping Eric would meet him in the library the following day. When Eric shook his head in agreement, Jamie patted his shoulder and they followed mumbling Julie back to the other discouraged searchers.
Looking back over her shoulder, Julie flashed a particularly vile smile. “God, the way Lacey used to talk about you; I would have thought you would have found us this kid by now. Damn but that woman could rave about you. She set you up on a pedestal like you were some kind of hero. Well, I guess that’s all dead and buried now, isn't it, MacLeod? Principal Sweetling’s her loving hero now. Let’s find this kid, shall we?”
In another fifteen minutes, James and Eric did.
Chapter 27
He admitted it! He’s a werewolf! An honest to god, covered in fur werewolf! Eric Standish couldn’t
believe Detective MacLeod had actually admitted to being a lycanthrope, a shape-changing werewolf. His sister Abby had to actually bump him in the forearm with the bowl of steaming potatoes after he’d ignored her the first two times. She chatted on a couple more minutes, giving up in sisterly exasperation and actually filling his plate and cutting his chicken. She chided him for being out there, but rattled on anyway, as though talking to her cat, telling him about her day, telling him she thought Kat and Mr. MacLeod were getting serious. Eric didn’t hear her, his mind already thinking about Jamie MacLeod.
He’s a werewolf–not those lame Hollywood oversized hairballs, but an actual breathing monster. Eric stumbled over the obvious in his thinking, and pulled up short. He didn’t think Jamie killed little Pamela Twigham, did he? Nah–no way. MacLeod wasn’t like that. He was one of the good guys. If Eric had been in the market for a new dad or a big brother, a guy like James would have been his first choice. God, he was sounding like such a fag. Besides, he’d said he could control it. He had some sort of medication. He’d also said he was running low on it. Shit! Eric’s dad had been a bit of a gun nut. He thought there was an old bullet mold in his dad’s collection. He knew which of the few remaining hand guns the bullets were for. Maybe while Abby was out, he’d collect a few random pieces of flatware. Make a few bullets for the Desert Eagle. Silver ones. Just in case.
* * * *
The next day Eric arrived at the library for his meeting with MacLeod five minutes early. When he started towards the room that housed Founder Paine’s private collection, he ran smack into Mrs. Shaw. Gertrude Shaw had been a teacher at Dyer-Paine High when Eric’s parents were students. She was a Mrs. in title only, having put three husbands in the cold stony earth of Raven’s Rest. Rumor among the local school kids was that she’d beat the third husband, Mr. Shaw, to death with a shovel. Apparently he’d been reluctant to eat the hearty homemade clam chowder she’d fed her other two husbands. Something about bubbling acid. Anyway, Gertrude spread her considerable bulk across the narrow passage between two card catalog cabinets, put on her best pit bull grimace–that really made the cluster of three hairy moles clutching the side of her prominent chin blush purple–and glared through her thick glasses, loudly informed Eric he couldn’t enter. “No way. If he thought he, a mere child, was gaining entrance to the sacred resting place of Founder Paine’s precious collection! Well, it just wasn’t going to happen.
“Gertie, be a dear and let him in, okay?”
“Oh–Jamie…he’s with you. Well then, dearie, what are you waiting for then, scoot in. As long as Detective MacLeod says it’s all right. Make sure you don’t touch anything!”
Eric brushed past his friend, desperately trying to stifle his snickers as he caught the detective’s eye. Gertrude Shaw watched them for half a minute, scowling at the boy’s back, but quickly changing to a smile when James looked her way. Smiling back, he continued looking until something about his stare unnerved the old widow and she quickly tottered to her desk in Circulation. James watched a couple seconds more, then moved into the room and closed the door. He took off his jacket, and asked Eric to do the same. When the teenager did, he carried each to opposite spots in the room and draped them over ordinary looking objects.
“Security cameras. I’ve already disabled the mikes. Advantage of being a local cop–I know what measures were taken to protect the collection, and how to block them. Besides, Gertie has been letting me use this room for about a month, so I’ve had plenty of time to search.” He took a seat next to Eric and consulted his watch. “I figure we’ve got about twenty minutes before Agnes Antonelli pops in to see how we’re doing. She’ll ask if she can help out, but really she’s just nosy.” He slid a book and notepad over to Eric and took a pen out of his pocket. “Here, better look busy. Open the book and scribble down a couple lines about –the beach, or maybe the harbor –I don’t know, just make it look like we are doing research.”
“Because Ms. Antonelli is nosy?”
“A spy.”
“A spy? For who?”
“Wish I knew. I have my suspicions. Look, what do you know about Grim Island’s founding fathers, Mr. Dyer and Mr. Paine?”
“Just what my parents and my friends told me. Maybe a little bit I read in that book you let Kat borrow. You’re really pretty hot for her, huh?”
“That is none of your business. Let’s stick to the subject. Our illustrious first settlers were a couple of shady scoundrels, but then I guess most of the people dumped on Grim Island were less than desirable. Zebulon Dyer was a merchant of sorts. He trafficked in human misery. He was a slaver–one of the worst–and he wasn’t above sampling his wares. Eventually, it got him killed. Jeremiah Paine was even worse than that, if possible. His ship, the Mermaid’s Curse, traveled the world in search of cheap cargo and exotic treasures. Several of these books, including the Mermaid’s log here,” Jamie placed a tanned hand on a waterlogged looking book covered in some sort of near hairless hide, “tell some pretty bizarre stories, but it’s his last voyage that we’re interested in. His brigantine took on cargo in Sri Lanka and was headed home when the troubles started.”
“Sri Lanka? Where’s that?”
“It’s in the Indian Ocean, south of India. I believe it was probably called Ceylon at the time Paine was there.” Jamie stuck his finger on his notes to hold his place, and looked at Eric. “My grandfather was torpedoed off there during the war. World War Two. His destroyer was escorting a convoy loaded with supplies for the troops in Burma. Japanese sub. Granddad lost an arm and fourteen good buddies. He would have bled to death if it hadn’t been for a Sri Lankan woman who took pity on him and nursed him back to health.” Jamie stopped talking and looked over at Eric, expecting the kid to be bored and wondering about the weird tangent. Instead Eric sat spellbound, maybe too much so. “Sorry, ancient history. Breaking my own rules. Mr. Paine brought Mermaid back to Rhode Island with less than half a crew. He’d lost most of his men at sea. Many were found slashed and bloody in their hammocks. It was Christmas Eve when they saw the watch fires of Grim Island. Most of Paine’s remaining crew was either drunk on yuletide rum or aloft taking in frozen canvas. The one remaining record shows they struck Drumhead reef at a little past two. By then, the temperature had dropped to fifteen degrees and it was blowing a half gale out of the Northeast. That same newspaper article says that Jeremiah Paine was the only survivor. All other souls were lost. Only a few bodies ever washed ashore. By then, most of them were too badly eaten to be identified. But I don’t think Jeremiah Paine struggled ashore alone. I believe his cargo followed him.”
The rest of their time flitted away. Jamie told Eric exactly what he thought the cargo might have been, what he suspected was wrong with Grim Island, and what he feared might happen. It all made sense, in a depressingly scary sort of way. Eric listened quietly, and then asked what they could do to stop it. Detective MacLeod had a few plans there, and had just started to lay out his ideas when his cell rang. It was Kat. They talked briefly. For a moment, Eric glimpsed the look of a cornered animal flitting across Jamie’s face. Hanging up, Jamie began to explain his plan. Eric listened with half an ear, debating whether to tell Jamie about Miss Rodriguez’s tears or Principal Sweetling. He knew she still cared for MacLeod, and he couldn’t stand the way Sweetling looked at her. There was something very wrong with Principal Sweetling.
* * * *
The words were still stuck on his lips when Agnes Antonelli walked in, regular as a bowel movement. She oozed about, batting her goofy false eye lashes at them both and straightening the book stacks with inch long false nails, each featuring a fake gem or tiny bit of cutesy art. She fluttered her eyes at MacLeod, wrinkling her shellacked red lips. Foul breath drifted through crooked grey teeth, half hidden in too much gum. Eric expected her to snort. When she finally navigated her bony ass out through the too narrow doorway, followed closely by a swirling f
og of cheap perfume, the spell was broken. Both men looked at each other, and began gathering their belongings. They agreed to meet again in two days. Eric said he would pick a time and place and call MacLeod. Jamie agreed. They hugged as only homophobic straight guys can, and parted; each with a mind roiling with dark thoughts.
* * * *
Later that night, Rufus Soares died. It had been a slow night and Rufus had retired with his girlie calendar the blue plastic shitter in back of his station. Earlier that night an Altima had come in loaded to the brim with kids. Pimply faced guys squirting hormones and sweet young things with ballooning boobies. The rattle trap belonged to Lorraine Petricone, and Rufus had seen right away that the daughter had inherited her mother’s good looks. Years back, Rufus had done the mom when she was a cheerleader and he was a high school jock. He fantasized about adding a notch with the daughter, but it wasn’t to be. Stuck-up little bitch. So here he was, choking his lizard in front of a damned calendar when the plastic john started shaking. Damned raccoons. Probably rabid. The shaking didn’t stop; it got worse. Pretty soon the bright blue john flopped over on its side, spewing out Miss December and half-naked Rufus. They found Rufus in the morning. Most of his face was gone. There was a huge chunk missing from his throat. His chest looked like he’d taken the full swipe from a pissed off grizzly. Open from sternum to groin, his insides had been ripped out. Some of the few remaining organs looked chewed.
