Authors: Grant McKenzie
CHAPTER
34
Sheriff Marshall yawned and rubbed his bleary eyes. Sleep had eluded him for a second night and it was beginning to wear heavy on his slack-jowled face.
Every time he closed his eyes he saw Barbara frozen in death, eyes bulging, veins popped, her tongue black and bloated. He had tried everything to bring back happier memories of a time when her eyes were alive and her wicked tongue teased him without mercy.
Nothing worked.
The stress was eating at him, unlocking vengeful thoughts. He stared out his office window at the view, but no longer knew if he could simply sail away or if his only escape would be to bring a permanent end to the evil that preyed on his town.
With a troubled sigh, Marshall returned to the computer keyboard in front of him, hunted for the D and stabbed it with his finger. He repeated the task for the letter O, then C . . .
It took him nearly 30 minutes to type the message. It took him another 20 minutes to figure out how to add a fancy border that made it look professional.
Marshall didn’t like computers, but he hated being left behind even more. All the young recruits nowadays were practically raised with the confounded things. Hell, they even had their own language. A night course at the local high school had given him the basics, but he was still easily baffled when one of his crew began talking about RAM and ROM. It sounded like a cartoon duo, and personally, he preferred Fred and Barney.
Once his message had been checked by the built-in speller, Marshall clicked the print command, typed in the number of copies, and poked the Enter key. A laser printer in the next room began to hum.
In less than two minutes, the sheriff picked up his copies and began posting them on the various bulletin boards around the station. As soon as he tacked one up, every officer in the room crowded around to read that a new health care policy had been put into effect that required everyone to undergo a quick, painless test for mouth cancer.
A doctor would be setting up in one of the interrogation rooms the following morning. The sheriff emphasized that anyone who didn’t make an appointment would be risking cancellation of all health benefits.
Despite a few grumbles and groans, Marshall was pleased no one bothered to come into his office to launch a formal complaint. Tough economic times and job scarcity made everyone so much more compliant.
That accomplished, Marshall opened his desk drawer and stared grimly at the object nestled inside a clear plastic evidence bag. With another sigh, he walked to the doorway, spotted Julia standing by the coffee machine, and called her over.
When she was inside the office, Marshall told her to close the door and take a seat.
“I like the notices,” Julia said.
Marshall nodded, but his face remained grim as he pulled out the evidence bag and placed it on the desk.
“This was in Gilles’ locker this morning.”
Julia stared at the object in the bag, recognizing it as a black mustache wig. A smear of dried spirit gum could be seen clearly on its back.
“Does that look anything like the mustache the gunman had?” Marshall asked.
Julia shrugged. “I was so far away,” she answered. “It looks the same, but . . .”
“But you can’t positively identify it?”
“No, sir. I can’t.”
Marshall sighed. “It’s amazing that in a barroom filled with people, including one of my own deputies, not a single person saw the killer’s face. I guess that’s why he decided to do it while the stripper was on stage. She was the kind of woman who made it difficult to look elsewhere.”
Julia looked down at her hands.
Marshall sighed again. “I’ll order a bite test done in the hospital. You can interrogate the prick when he regains consciousness.”
AGENT CRYRE RAYNE
drove up a gravel road just a few miles south of town and parked in the yard of a white ranch-style bungalow. As soon as he stepped out of the rental car, two giant dogs came bounding out from behind the house. The barking was loud enough to wake the dead as they bore down on him.
If their tails hadn’t been wagging a hundred beats per second, Cryre would have dived back inside the vehicle and pulled his gun. As it was, he stood his ground, held out his hand and let the animals get a good sniff of the stranger in the charcoal-blue Buffy Cottrell suit.
“You don’t look the kind of man who would know about dogs,” said a woman’s voice from the wide porch that fronted the farmhouse.
Cryre looked up from the slobbering mutts to see a tiny, bone-thin woman in a handsome dress and flour-powdered apron.
“Don’t let the suit fool you,” he said with a grin. “I grew up in the country.”
The woman stared back, appraising him.
“Well, you scrub up nice for a farm boy. Come on in. I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee on the stove and some warm sourdough biscuits just out the oven.”
The woman retreated into the house, leaving Cryre to fend off the dogs and cross the lawn to join her. The short walk was made difficult as the dogs were in competition to see which one could trip him first. Cryre knew if he stumbled, there was a good chance he would drown in an overdose of drool.
When he finally made it to the porch, both dogs stopped at the bottom of the stairs, their tongues lagging and tails thumping. Despite their pleading eyes, neither one made an attempt to climb the three short stairs to the front door.
Cryre entered the home, finding it spartan and clean. He followed the sounds of kitchen noise to the largest room in the house. The kitchen was bright and airy with a large, well-used, solid wood table dominating the room.
“Grab us some mugs. Second cupboard from the end,” said the woman.
Cryre did as he was told, placing the mugs on the table before settling onto a wooden chair. When the woman turned around, she was holding a large bowl filled with sourdough biscuits, and a bubbling pot of fresh coffee. She placed both on the table, then quickly filled out the order with a small pitcher of cream, a bowl of sugar, two plates and a serving of churned butter.
“Dig in,” she encouraged.
Cryre couldn’t resist. He quickly slathered a biscuit with butter and took his first bite. The biscuit melted in his mouth, the sourdough enhanced by the sweet, salty taste of the butter.
With his mouth full, he mumbled, “This is great,” and was rewarded with a thin smile.
Now that he was up close, Cryre could see that the woman was younger than her initial appearance led him to believe. If he had to peg an age, he would have said early-to-mid fifties. If she put on some weight to smooth out the wrinkles, she would even be considered attractive.
“So what kind of farm did you grow up on?” the woman asked through bites of her biscuit and sips of coffee.
“It was a vineyard, actually,” said Cryre. “My parents own 40 acres on Spring Mountain. They produce about 3,500 cases per year from their own grapes, most of it a signature Chardonnay.”
“That must smell better than pigs.”
Cryre laughed. “Yes, it’s quite lovely. They’ve kept it very simple, very rustic. My father shuns modern conveniences and tends his wine barrels like spoiled children.”
“My family has always been in the raise-it, kill-and-eat-it business, so I don’t know much about wine. It sounds nice. More coffee?”
Enjoying the rich aroma and taste, Cryre nodded and held out his mug. Good coffee was one of his passions, and when you traveled in law enforcement circles, you quickly realized how difficult it was to find.
“I grind my own,” said the woman, noticing his enjoyment. “Not that I’m being fancy, but I like things fresh.”
“It’s wonderful.”
The woman brushed crumbs from the corners of her mouth and wrapped her hands around the warm mug.
“So what brings you and your nice manners to my home this morning?”
“I’m looking for Andrew Wilson.”
The woman took a sip of coffee before answering.
“Andy’s my son, but he’s not here.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
The woman tried to hide her expression, but it didn’t take a detective to tell she was in pain.
“He hasn’t been home in two days.” The woman lifted her eyes to meet Cryre’s. “You know about what happened?”
Cryre nodded. “That’s why I’m here. I read the incident report, but I wanted to talk him directly, to see if he remembered anything about his attacker with more clarity.”
“Poor, boy. Such a terrible thing.” The woman’s eyes glistened as she fought back tears. “I brought him home from the hospital, tried to make everything better, but he was so full of rage. Like lightning it was. Sharp and hot. There was nothing I could . . . Do you have children, mister . . . err?”
“Rayne. Special Agent Cryre Rayne. And, no, I don’t have children.”
“Hmmm, pretty name. Your mother must have chosen it. Perhaps while sipping your father’s wine?”
When Cryre didn’t respond, she continued. “When you have children, Mr. Rayne, you’ll do anything for them. You know those stories one hears about mothers who suddenly gain the strength to lift a van off their trapped child? I think all parents have that strength. And if I ever find the creature that attacked my child, I know I will break him clean in two with my bare hands. I won’t break a sweat and I will have no regrets, but with that said, I fear my Andy knew more than he was telling the police.”
“Is that why he’s missing?” Cryre asked, trying to be gentle.
“I believe he had an idea of the identity of the monster. And I believe he went to hunt it down. Andy always was a good hunter, but if he had been successful, he would have come home. And if he had come home, I would have protected him with all my wiles and all my strength. You would not have been able to touch him, that I promise you.”
Cryre was glad he wasn’t there with an arrest warrant. Crossing paths with this boy’s mother would be like facing those two dogs outside, without the wagging tails.
“I’ll do all I can to find your son,” Cryre said.
The woman took another sip of coffee.
“It’s too late,” she said quietly. “But I appreciate the gesture.” She dabbed at her eyes with the edge of the apron and switched on a small, thin smile. “How about I wrap up some of these biscuits for your journey? They’ll just go stale if I have to eat them all myself.”
Cryre accepted gratefully.
CHAPTER
35
It looked more like a hare than a rabbit: huge ears, giant feet, twitching nose and furry as a teddy bear. It hopped between rows of baby carrots, its eyes clearly fixed on a batch of butter lettuce growing in the far corner.
Big Brother watched it closely, a shotgun firm against his shoulder, both barrels cocked and ready. The hare stopped, twitched its nose and looked around. It sensed danger nearby, but it was too dumb and too blind to look toward the porch and the hulking figure that stood in the shadows.
The creature leaped, its two hind legs propelling it gracefully across the carrot tops. The shotgun boomed, both barrels emptying buckshot, ripping the hare and a chunk of the garden to pieces.
Big Brother giggled. “Th-th-that’s all, folks.”
Reloading his gun, Big Brother heard the familiar crunch of gravel from the beginning of his driveway. It was followed by a splash of mud as the vehicle swerved off the road to avoid the hidden pit.
It was definitely time to change the traps.
Little Brother parked in front of the porch and walked into the house without saying a word. Big Brother grinned and followed.
“Have you thought about it?” Big Brother asked as he opened the fridge and pulled out two cans of Colt .45. He tossed one across the room. Little Brother caught it in one hand and opened it with the other. White foam sprayed across the bare wooden floor.
“I don’t want to kill her,” Little Brother answered. “It isn’t necessary.”
“Course you don’t think it necessary, that’s cause you was born without brains.”
“That’s not true,” Little Brother protested. “Look where I got in life and look at you. You’re living in a shack and wearing dungarees for Christ’s sake. And what the hell is that god-awful smell?”
Big Brother strode across the floor and backhanded his brother hard across the face. “You watch your mouth, little brother. I got me a sensitive side.”
Little Brother bristled with anger as he wiped a dribble of blood from his mouth.
“Don’t fret none,” Big Brother said. “I used the flat of my hand, not the knuckles. It won’t show.”
“I have a plan.”
Big Brother sighed. “Okay, let’s hear it.”
“We lay it all on Gilles.”
“And what’s to stop that damn woman from poking her nose any further? She’s too cozy already with that federal agent.”
Little Brother paused.
“I can handle her. I’ve already placed evi
dence in Gilles’ locker and..
.”
“You did what?” Big Brother yelled.
“I planted the fake mustache in his locker.”
“You dumb piece of shit. I don’t know why Daddy wasted his seed on you. I’ve been setting up Wells for that rap. Now they’ll have two goddamn suspects.”
Little Brother stared at the floor. “It was Gilles who killed the cook in the first place, and he’s no goddamn use to us in the hospital.”
Big Brother tried to control his temper. “If Gilles gets a hint we’re stitching him up, he’ll talk to that fed faster than you can break wind. If you had any sense you would see the only way out now is to kill that nosey woman. She don’t know her place.”
“But there’s been too much killing already; I don’t think I can . . .”
“You don’t have to think,” Big Brother said. “Don’t you get it? We’ll have Wells bump off the woman. Then you’ll help him turn the shotgun on himself in an act of remorse over his terrible deeds. Naturally, he’ll use the same gun he used on that bitch of a stripper. Case closed.”
“What about the bite tests?”
Big Brother pondered, not wanting to admit his brother might have done something clever after all.
“Those could work in our favor,” he said. “The bite links to Gilles. Stupid, fucking amateur that he is. Once you take care of Wells, all you have to do is make sure Gilles suffers an embolism or something. With those injuries, it shouldn’t be tough. Then the feds will be in pig-shit conspiracy heaven: two dead murderers and peace restored to a nice, quiet town.”
“And you’ll leave for good this time?”
“Like I promised.”
Little Brother twisted his fingers together. “I still don’t like the idea of killing another cop.”
“It’s the only way we walk away from this, little brother. The only way.”