The Paranormalist 4: The Unearthly

by William Massa

  Sheriff Delgado appeared to be torn between both groups. He finished his call and addressed me.

  “We don’t get a lot of shootings in this town,” he began. “Quiet little tourist place like this, the worst we usually see is a drunk and disorderly.”

  I nodded, waiting for him to get to the point. He didn’t seem interested in charging me with anything—I had a permit for my gun, after all, and a dozen witnesses could tell him I’d fired in self-defense. But I had the feeling he hadn’t called me into his office just to say thanks.

  "Your quick action saved lives, Mr. Kane,” the sheriff continued.

  "Thanks. My instincts took over."

  "Some instincts. Most folks freeze up when confronted with an active shooter scenario. Some people might call you a hero."

  I didn't feel like a hero as the image of the victims flashed through my mind. Had I reacted a little faster, the man might still be alive. Hell, the shooter might still be alive, too, provided that he wasn’t already some kind of animated corpse or demonic construct. And yes, that’s the kind of thing I have to worry about in my line of work. The sheriff's voice pulled me out of my grim musings.

  "I spoke to Detective Sanchez.”

  He was referring to my liaison at the LAPD, Detective Sanchez, who I'd assisted on numerous occasions in the past.

  "The good detective tried to explain to me the sort of work you do, but I'm still a little confused."

  You and the rest of the world, buddy, I thought. In a world where science and logic ruled the day, there was little patience for the supernatural.

  Sheriff Delgado leaned forward, eyes narrowed.

  "What exactly does a ‘paranormal expert’ do?"

  "I help out the police department all over the country and the world with occult crimes," I said as if I was explaining the most normal thing in the world. Delgado's bushy eyebrows shot upward.

  "And what constitutes an occult crime? I mean, is that even a thing?"

  "You'd be surprised. The world is stranger than you can imagine, and people are into some weird shit."

  I held Delgado's gaze and opted for an explanation that wouldn't get me committed on the spot and lose me all credibility with the sheriff. Best if I broke things down in real-world terms that would make sense to the man while wisely avoiding all mentions of demons and monsters.

  "I'm an expert when it comes to cults and fringe religions. There are criminals out there who are guided by occult ideas. Serial killers who think the devil is telling them what to do, their crimes motivated by ritualistic practices."

  "So you're a profiler who can get into the heads of the well-adjusted individuals who buy into all this supernatural crap."

  I took a deep breath and then nodded. Not how I would've put it, but it would do for now.

  "And what brings a guy like yourself out here to Big Bear Lake? You looking for Bigfoot?"

  "I'm here on vacation, sheriff," I said tightly, not amused.

  He paused, sizing me up. "I knew the shooter," the sheriff said, his voice growing serious all of a sudden. "Up until today, I thought he was an upstanding man, a model citizen. Jeremy Plevins is well known and respected around these parts. And you’ve never seen a man so head-over-heels crazy about a woman as he was for her. So what makes a man like that cover his body in tattoos one day and go after his wife with a goddamn hunting rifle?"

  "I don't know. But perhaps if you let me take a look at the body, I can learn more about what happened here."

  Delgado pursed his lips, and I hoped that meant he was considering my request.

  "I appreciate your quick actions in the art gallery. Mr. Kane, but why would I let you assist me with a murder case?"

  I held Delgado's probing gaze and carefully chose my next words. I didn't want the sheriff to shut me out of this investigation. This case had found me, and I wasn’t going to let it go that easily.

  "You saw the tattoos?"

  Sheriff Delgado nodded grimly. "Yes. Tattoos Jeremy didn't have when I last ran into him a week ago."

  An uncertain note crept into this voice. Even a skeptic like Delgado sensed that something bizarre was going on here. The ink on Plevins’ skin was too elaborate and extensive to have been a recent body modification. And eldritch symbols were hardly the kind of thing most guys going through a midlife crisis would choose as a tattoo. A dragon maybe, or a phoenix, but nothing as weird as what I’d seen in the art gallery.

  Fortunately, Delgado had an expert on the weird sitting right across from him.

  Unfortunately, as far as I had been able to tell, the strange markings covering the man's skin didn't match any occult tradition I was familiar with. Delgado didn't need to know that.

  "Based on my first impression—and grant you, I was fighting for my life at the time—the tattoos appear to have a deeper occult meaning. Perhaps if I had a chance to look at them more closely…"

  I let my voice trail off into a question mark.

  “You really think that would help?”

  "I can't make any guarantees, but it won't hurt. What do you say?"

  Delgado studied me pensively for another beat. I could tell what was going through his mind. He didn't like the idea of having a stranger getting involved in a murder case, but the LAPD had vouched for me. Besides, I was already involved. Had been from the moment I drew my Glock. Something had turned a responsible citizen into a crazed killer almost overnight, and the sheriff was struggling to make all the pieces fit in his mind. Something told me he would need my help sooner rather than later.

  "Okay, let's have you take another look at those tattoos and see if you can make heads or tails of it."

  I nodded, grateful to remain involved.

  "Thank you. I'll do my best to help you get to the bottom of all this."

  "Alright then, Mr. Paranormal Expert, let's take a look."

  Mind made up, Sheriff Delgado rose from behind his desk and escorted me out of the office. I briefly traded glances with Vesper in the next room. She shot me a worried look. The poor woman had hoped to make this a relaxing vacation for us both, planning every detail so that I could just rest and enjoy myself.

  “I’m just going to check something out with the sheriff,” I told her, keeping my tone light. She didn’t need to know we were going down the morgue—not because it would freak Vesper out, but because she would demand to come with us.

  Sheriff Delgado led me through the small station, the curious looks of the deputies following us as we headed for the morgue in the basement. Soon enough, someone would Google my name and the proverbial cat would be out of the bad. The whispers would start, and the stares would get worse. I was used to it.

  Less than five minutes later, we arrived in the morgue. The coroner towered over the naked body of Jeremy Plevins. The tattoos covering the man's arms and neck were only the tip of the iceberg. His whole body was a map of esoteric ink.

  I noticed how Sheriff Delgado clenched his hands nervously. There was no way Plevins could have gotten all these tattoos over the last few days. These weren’t new. They looked like they'd been etched into his skin on the day he was born.

  I vividly recalled how the strange symbols had shifted and slithered over the dead shooter's skin back in the gallery. At least they weren't moving with a life of their own now. Whatever force had animated them earlier was lost the moment the dead man hit the floor.

  I pulled out my cell phone and took a few pics. The coroner seemed about to protest, but Delgado intervened, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder.

  "It's okay, Scott."

  Delgado nodded at me, and I snapped a few more images. What I really wanted to do was pull out my athame. I doubted either the sheriff or the coroner would have let me run my magical knife over the corpse on the autopsy table. But I wondered if the strange phenomenon I'd witnessed in the art gallery would repeat itself if I brought the blade close to the tattoos. Would the peculiar markings appear on my athame again? My ouroboros tattoo didn't respond to the corps
e, so I figured the evil power had left the dead shooter's body. Still, I hated to leave any possible clue unexamined.

  My eyes narrowed as I took in the bare patch of skin on the man’s neck. The tattoo that had momentarily appeared on the blade of my athame was gone from the blade, but it had not returned to poor Mr. Plevins. It was almost like the knife had absorbed the design. I vividly recalled the triumphant expression carved on the man’s face when he realized what was happening. Were these tattoos wards or containment spells of some kind? Perhaps the magic of my knife inadvertently opened one of the many locks containing the true evil with Plevins’ human form.

  Thinking about it made my head hurt. The question would require further research. Identifying the designs etched all over the dead man’s body would be a first step. Luckily, I had the world’s best paranormal research assistant waiting for me upstairs.

  Delgado watched me with growing impatience. Was he expecting me to whip out a magic wand to conjure the murderer from thin air?

  "So what do you make of it?" he asked, unable to wait any longer.

  I shrugged, frustrated that I wasn’t able to offer any answers, at least not yet.

  “I’ll need more time to study these tattoos, conduct some research. If this is a known script, I’ll find a match.”

  I tried to sound more optimistic than I felt. I doubted I would find the decoder ring for this puzzle in some occult tome back at my library. There was something strange about these markings—stranger than my usual cases, I mean.

  I leaned over the dead man's face. Plevins’ eyes were mercifully back to normal, and no hint of the strange spirals I'd witnessed in the gallery remained. He was merely a dead man with some very unusual ink.

  I turned back to Delgado. I wasn't looking forward to this next part.

  “I’d like to have a little chat with the victim's wife,” I said. The sheriff scowled, but he nodded in agreement.

  The woman would be in mourning, confused, and conflicted about what had happened and how close she'd come to being murdered by the man she loved.

  I had no idea how she would respond to me asking her questions. I had saved her life, that much was true. But I had also shot her husband.

  But she was the best lead we had here.

  So I let Delgado lead me back upstairs. Mrs. Plevins sat in a small room, being interviewed by a female deputy. Delgado jerked his chin at the door, and the deputy left the room. It was my turn to take her place.

  I settled into the chair across from the newly minted widow and studied her for a beat.

  The poor woman was a mess. Her eyes were red from crying, arms tightly wrapped around her body. She shared little in common with the vibrant, attractive woman I’d first glimpsed back in the gallery. She looked spent, at the brink of physical exhaustion, and my heart went out to her. This was going to be a tough one. I would have much rather preferred to face some demon beast in battle than put her through any more trauma.

  For a long moment, she didn't even acknowledge my presence. Delgado lurked in the corner of the room, observing. I tried to block out the sheriff's hovering presence and entirely focus on the woman in front of me.

  "Mrs. Plevins, how are you?"

  No response.

  "I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but I need to ask you some questions about your husband. We’re trying to understand what happened today."

  Her blank gaze cleared, and a flash of anger edged into her eyes as they filled with recognition.

  "You killed the man I loved."

  For a split second, I expected Mrs. Plevins to launch herself at me the way her husband had a few hours earlier. Instead all the rage drained from her expression, and her body deflated. She made a pitiful sight, haggard and red-eyed from crying, and I sensed I wasn't going to get anything out of poor Mrs. Plevins. Even though I'd pushed her out of the path of her husband's bullets, she blamed me for what happened. Probably the last thing she remembered was me shooting her husband in the leg.

  I waited in silence. Mrs. Plevins kept her head downcast.

  I finally conceded defeat and rose to my feet. I nodded at Delgado, and we both left the room.

  "She's been through a lot,” the sheriff said, sensing my frustration. “We have to give it some time."

  I nodded, not happy about hitting another dead end, and swerved to intercept the female deputy who’d been sitting with Mrs. Plevins. "Were you able to get anything out of her, Deputy Wood?"

  The deputy shook her head.

  "Not much, to be honest. She was madly in love with her husband, no problems on that front."

  "You could have fooled me," a young male deputy chimed in, but none of us were laughing.

  "Anything else? Was her husband, abusing drugs?"

  Worshipping demons, I wanted to add but bit my tongue.

  "She said her husband was totally fine earlier today. He was looking forward to a hunting trip with one of his closest friends, a photographer by the name of Ralf Coleman."

  "So he failed to bag a buck and decided to shoot up an art gallery?" the other deputy asked. The kid needed to practice his stand-up routine somewhere else. Delgado clearly had the same thought.

  “Don’t you have paperwork to get caught up on, Malone?”

  The younger deputy scurried away, leaving the adults to talk.

  "Who was the male victim?" I asked.

  "His name is Malcolm Brant. He owns the gallery and lives next door to the Plevinses," Deputy Wood said.

  "Could be there was something going on between Brant and the wife,” Delgado chimed in. “Maybe they were having an affair. Jeremy found out and lost it."

  That doesn't explain the strange markings all over Plevins' body or the inhuman light in his eyes, I thought but kept quiet.

  "Didn't they have a great relationship?" I asked the sheriff. “You told me yourself that he worshipped the ground she walked on.”

  "That's what everyone thought, but appearances can be deceptive."

  I couldn't argue with that contention. I thought of my father, how he'd presented one face to the world while hiding his true evil.

  "Well, any other thoughts on the case, Mr. Kane?"

  "I think we should visit this friend of his. If Plevins suspected his wife of having an affair, he most likely told Coleman about it while they were out in the woods.

  Sheriff Delgado nodded slowly. “Might have been the real reason for the hunting trip in the first place. A chance to get it all off his chest."

  The puzzle was finally coming together in the sheriff’s head, and Ralf could prove the final piece. I doubted that was the case, but perhaps he could tell us something of interest while Mrs. Plevins recovered from her loss.

  "One more thing,” I said. “My assistant is coming with us."

  The sheriff was about to protest when Deputy Malone tore into the room, all trace of humor gone from his face.

  "What is it?" Sheriff Delgado asked.

  "We have an incident at the zoo," the young deputy said. “It’s bad, sir.”

  I cursed under my breath and followed the sheriff out of the station at a run.

  Chapter Five

  Ralf Coleman enjoyed nothing better than venturing into the wild, camera in hand. His whole life involved traveling to inhospitable places and bringing back some of the most spectacular images of wild animals the world had ever seen. The photos were breathtaking and filled art galleries and the pages of magazines such as National Wildlife Magazine, Cricket, National Geographic and Aperture.

  Of course, the process of achieving those amazing shots wasn’t quite as exciting as the moments immortalized by his camera. Ninety-nine percent of his job consisted of waiting in the bushes to capture that perfect shot. It could be grueling, and many people would have gone mad with boredom, but those people weren’t Ralf Coleman.

  Ralf knew if you waited long enough, it paid off. His secret superpower wasn’t his talent but his patience.

  Over the years, he had documented sp
ecies like gorillas, rhinos, and jaguars, and every shot told a story. Among his favorite moments was the photograph of a battle-scarred grizzly and a Bengali tiger with his paws red from a fresh kill. A single image could say as much as the stories that sometimes accompanied them in the magazines.

  He was currently chasing down his next story, his next shot. Ralf’s chest flared with excitement. Inspiration had struck him back at the observatory. Peering into the lens of the age-worn telescope had proven to be a revelation.

  The stars had never inspired him in the same way as the creatures that roamed the earth below. He barely remembered why he’d felt so compelled to set foot inside the strange structure. Nor did he know why he couldn’t resist taking a peek through the lens of the telescope.

  But once he did, everything made a lot more sense.

  To his surprise, he wasn’t looking up at the stars or even the sky, for that matter. Instead, three bears filled his field of vision, majestic specimens that roamed a small artificial habitat. Their immense size, short rounded ears, pronounced muscular humps on their shoulders, and four-inch-long claws left no doubt in his mind that they were Grizzlies.

  Ralf’s favorite.

  When he noticed the steel fence that prevented these magnificent beasts from roaming free, his chest grew tight with rage. How dare they cage those beautiful creatures? What gave anyone the right to restrict their freedom?

  The bears listlessly lurched through habitat, broken creatures going through the motions. This pitiful shadow existence was no life for such amazing animals.

  Ralf suddenly knew what he had to do.

  As he pulled away from the telescope and Jeremy took his place, his mind was already a million miles away. He forgot about his friend as he strode out of the observatory, filled with a new sense of urgency.

  He didn’t register the cold as he made his way through the snow-covered forest. Barely paid attention to the harsh wind raking his exposed skin or the fading sunlight painting shadows against the frozen background.