Blood and Rain (12 page)

Chapter Twenty

“I'm gonna go do a loop around town, unless you want to do it?” said Deputy Shelly Glescoe to Deputy Hines. She needed a reason to vacate the too-sticky, too-quiet confines of the Gilson Creek Police Station. The humidity was horrible. She was sweating and felt like she needed a shower.

She'd been watching Randy try not to fall asleep at his desk. He looked awful. He hadn't been the same since last weekend. He seemed tense, quiet, moody. Rita told her he'd even pulled his gun earlier this week on a guy asking about the animal attacks Her only two-way conversations tonight had come from the part-time dispatcher, Earl Penny. Earl was on with them until four in the morning.

Earl, the part-time dispatcher wasn't much of a talker unless you got him going on about Elvis, but overall he was nice. He was short and bald, wore thick glasses and smelled a little like molasses. He reminded Shelly of her papaw.

She waited a few seconds longer for Deputy Hines to respond, as her question just seemed to float out across the room under a cloak of invisibility. “Randy?”

He looked up, rubbed his temples and said, “Sorry, Glescoe. I've been battling a migraine for the last couple of hours. Yeah, go on out.”

“All right, I'm heading out. Earl, you feel free to give me a shout if you need me.”

Earl looked up from his Tom Clancy novel and responded with a simple, “Ay-yuh.”

She took one last glance at Hines. He kept his face toward the work laid out before him. Shelly turned, grabbed the keys off her desk and headed to the doors. She wondered if it was a headache or if something else was bothering him. He was a private guy. Maybe his mother was ill or something. She would have to try to drag it out of him. Maybe when she got back.

“Shelly?” Deputy Hines called out.

She stopped in the doorway. “Yeah?”

“You have your shotgun, right?”

“Yes.”

“Just making sure. Sheriff's orders. Holler if you need me.”

Deputy Randy Hines couldn't get through his pile of paperwork. His head was killing him. Migraines ran in his family. They'd gotten worse since last weekend. No matter how much he tried he couldn't stop seeing the bodies. Old Mike's half-eaten chest, the poor Rowel guy's face. Joe hadn't broached the subject yet, but he knew. Just like in his dreams, just like in the crappy paper—the beast had returned.

“You okay?” Earl said. “You look a little pale.”

“Just need some Advil or something.”

“I got some Aleve up here. Why don't you take a couple and go lie down on the cot out back? I'll come get ya if Shelly calls.”

“I think I might take you up on that, Earl. Thanks.” Randy didn't think he'd be able to sleep. He hadn't been able to the last few nights, without alcohol, but the drugs might work on the migraine. The beast, not so much.

Shelly Glescoe originally planned to swing through downtown first, to check on Gil's and the general store, but decided instead that she would go out to the quieter parts of town beforehand. She loved patrolling those quiet areas of town after dark. There was something comforting and almost serene about crawling down rural roads, past the homes of people she knew, and for the most part liked, making sure they were okay. She felt a bit like a mother keeping a watchful eye over her children.

Dwayne would make a great father someday. She was in love with him, though she had yet to say it aloud. She was sure he felt the same way, and she really wanted him to say it first. Childish
?
Maybe, but that's just how she felt about it. They had been seeing each other, a lot of each other, for the better part of the last four months.

They had thought they were being sly about it too, but the sheriff put that poor theory to bed a few weeks ago. He didn't say he knew they were an item, he didn't have to. It was the way he addressed them when they were together that implied they should behave themselves and remain professional. She knew the sheriff didn't exactly agree with the relationship. Hell, they both knew going into it that it could get very complicated, but so far, so good.

She was supposed to give Dwayne a call tonight after her first patrol. She had assured him she could take care of herself, but it was nice to have him worry. She decided to turn back toward town and see about meeting up with Dwayne. There wouldn't be anything happening out here tonight—there never was. She turned around in the first driveway she came upon and headed for Brighton Circle.

Deputy Randy Hines had just returned to his desk when the sheriff's call came in.

“Deputy Hines,” Earl bellowed from the dispatch desk. “Sheriff's on the phone.”

“Hines.”

“Randy, I need you to come out to Mel Murdock's place. It seems Stan Springs paid her a visit.”

Hines ran his fingers through his short blond hair. “Can't you get Glescoe? She's out patrolling right now.”

“If I wanted Shelly over here, I would have called her. I called you, Randy.”

Randy rubbed his temples and responded, “I'll be right over.” He hung up the phone, grabbed his keys from the desk and nodded to Earl on his way out.

Within minutes, Deputy Hines pulled his cruiser up alongside the sheriff's Range Rover. Hines, with his window rolled down, waited behind the wheel as the sheriff approached. “Sheriff,” he said.

“Randy, I need you to head over to Stan's place and see if he's there.”

“Do you want me to bring him in?”

“No, just go out and see if his truck is there. Don't step foot on his property, you hear me? If the truck is there, hang back and watch for a little while.”

“Sheriff, I'm not scared of that old bastard. Let me go talk to him.”

“Trust me, Randy, you should be. I'm not sure what's going on with him lately, maybe it's all this…”

Mel was sitting on the porch steps listening.

“Like I said, you are not to set foot on his property unless instructed to do so, you hear me?”

“Yes, Sheriff.”

“Good. Call me on my cell once you confirm whether he's there or not.” Joe lowered his voice. “Mel's asked me to stay with her. She's pretty shaken up and I don't blame her. You can reach me on my cell.”

“Okay, Sheriff.”

Deputy Hines backed out of Melanie Murdock's driveway and headed out toward Old Gilson Creek Road.

Randy Hines parked his cruiser just down the road from Stan Springs's driveway. The truck was there, all right. If the old man left his property, he would see him.

Hines didn't like being out on Old Gilson Creek Road or Christie Road this late at night. The body of Brian Rowel passed through his mind and sent a chill up his spine. Since the night of Deputy Brett Curry's demise, Hines had made it his business to know what nights the full moon fell on and the next one was only a few weeks away.

Whenever he was stuck on third shift, like he was tonight, he'd sit outside of Gil's Tavern, parked in one of the darker corners of the parking lot, listening to sports talk radio rather than driving out here. He'd never told anyone that he was afraid or uncomfortable with patrolling either of the outer roads. It was a secret he chose to keep to himself. He only drew about two night shifts a month anyway. He didn't see the sense in going out to the edge of a usually quiet town, or the harm in pretending that he had.

And now, here he was. Joe was supposed to be the closest connection to Stan in this town. Hines had seen the man he used to call sheriff many times since his return from the loony bin a couple years back. He was a grizzled mess.
How does that happen to a man? Would it happen to me?

In his mind, Randy saw Old Mike's severed arm, all the blood and the half-devoured chest.

Despite the fact that he'd been staked out in front of Stan Springs's house for only a few minutes, Deputy Hines started up his car and headed back toward the station.

Stan Springs crouched just out of sight behind an old decrepit tree near the rear of Deputy Hines's cruiser. His teeth lit up with the red of the brake lights, making his off-kilter grin look as though it were filled with blood. He stood up as he watched the car pull away.

He couldn't wait to return to the house of Melanie Murdock. That bitch was going to wish that she had kept to minding her own goddamn business. And maybe that useless little shit, Alex McKinney, would be next. They would all be wishing they'd left him alone.

Stan walked down his driveway, made his way around the far corner of his home and headed out into his backyard. He looked into the blackness of the forest before him, remembering the fear he had once felt while looking out upon this dead piece of earth.

He laughed to himself. It was a dead, joyless laugh. He stepped onto the soft soil with his bare feet and walked into the forest and its nocturnal bliss.

Deputy Glescoe pulled up in front of Gil's Tavern to a few hoots and whistles from the drunk and the dumb. “Thanks, guys. Any of you driving tonight?”

They all mumbled and moaned.

Dwayne slipped into the passenger seat. “Hey. How's the late shift going?”

She wanted to kiss him, but the drunken crew was still watching. “Good. Quiet. Just the way I like it.”

“I thought you liked it rough?”

“Behave yourself. How much have you had to drink tonight?”

“Me? Couple of drinks.”

“We did have one incident a little while ago.”

“What was that?”

“Joe called Randy to go check on Stan Springs.”

“What? Why?”

“I guess he stopped in Mel's driveway. Tried to intimidate her or something.”

“Weird.”

“What?”

“He was here when I got here tonight. I even talked to him.”

“Really? What did he say? What was he like?”

“He was…kind of dark. He was asking about the animal attacks. Asked what Joe's line was?”

“Joe's
line
?”

“Yeah, something to do with the other mountain lion attacks back in '97.”

“That
is
weird. Mel's okay, Randy's checking on Springs. Seems like we've got it under control for the night. Why don't you let me give you a ride home?”

“Sure. Let me run in and pay my tab.”

She watched him go inside and thought about the ex-sheriff. She wondered if last weekend's full moon had made everybody crazy.

Chapter Twenty-One

The Fourth of July came and went without a hitch. In the two and a half weeks since the last full moon, Joe's head was pulled in a million different directions. His mandated 9:00 p.m. curfew caused a few sparks to fly among the twenty-somethings and a few of the parents in town, but most of his community understood. No one wanted to be the next Old Mike.

Sonya split her time with either Alex or Kim. They'd barely had the opportunity to speak. He'd loosened the reins. He knew she wasn't going to be happy about being locked down later this week, but there was no way he was going to allow her out with what was coming.

Stan Springs's odd drive-by at Mel's house seemed to be a one-time thing. He hadn't been by her home or the café since, though Gil had mentioned that he'd been drinking and talking to himself at the tavern most nights. So long as he wasn't bothering other people, Joe didn't mind. Gil agreed.

The relationship between Mel and him was another complicating piece to the puzzle. The timing was far from ideal, but without her company on his free nights, he probably would have already cracked. Part of him still struggled with sleeping with her. He knew it was dumb, but he felt like he was cheating on Lucy.

Sonya had walked in on them kissing during one of her stops home for money. She'd smiled and winked at him. His daughter's acceptance meant a lot to him, and to Mel.

The biggest pains in Joe's ass over the past few weeks had been the bored shitheads at the
Crypto Insider
. They continued to try and get him to feed them something over the phone for their rag. Rita explained what Randy had done when they showed up that first day while he was out. Joe was certain they wouldn't dare come back to the station, but, still, the phone calls were relentless.

And it wasn't just the two pseudoreporters. Their articles had stirred up a handful of his most level-headed townspeople. Pug Gettis, a God-fearing, every-Sunday front-rower at Saving Grace Baptist, had inherited Old Mike's role as wolfman alarmist. Christine Morris and Tina Bazinet had called the station at least every other night reporting anything that moved in the dark. Deputy Clarke had broken up more than one beach party of local teens down at Emerson Lake after curfew. The last party, he reported two nights ago, had a wolfman theme. Two of the boys, Troy Butler and Brad Bennington, had been escorted home dressed up like it was Halloween and howling in the cruiser, drunk as a couple of Gil's best customers. The
Crypto Insider
was doing him no good.

Even with all of this madness, Joe managed to prepare, hopefully better than seven years ago, for whatever would unleash itself on his town this weekend. Today, a trip to Barlow Olson's gun shop was in order.

He arrived at Olson's at 3:00 p.m. A
Closed
sign hung in the front door.

You've got to be kidding me.

Then he noticed movement inside of the shop. From behind the counter, a large, bearded man waved him in. Joe shut the truck engine off and left it parked at the curb. He got out and met Olson at the door.

The man was the size of an NBA center. He stood at least six foot seven, probably about 280, maybe 290, pounds. He was dressed in a pair of green work pants and a black T-shirt bearing a blood-spattered skull with a knife sticking through it—
Kill 'Em All, Let God Sort 'Em Out
scrawled across the top in blood. He wore his mane of gray hair, pulled back in a ponytail. His beard, which had been dark brown the last time Joe stopped by to visit him, had also gone the way of silver. He looked much older than his fifty-two years.

He shook Joe's hand—he certainly hadn't lost an ounce of strength—and welcomed him into the shop.

“My apologies about the sign, Sheriff. You just sounded like you had something heavy on your mind. I figured we might need the privacy.” Olson meandered back toward his regular perch behind the glass counter at the center of his little shop.

The place looked much the same as it always had. Guns of all shapes and sizes were proudly displayed on racks and hooks on the wall behind the long glass case containing every kind of knife you could imagine. A line of shotguns followed a row of rifles. Beside them was an arrangement of handguns displayed in the shape of a heart.

Barlow Olson was an odd duck. That was never in doubt.

There was a fancy-looking new banner above the guns that read
Convert Threats to Carpet Stains
.

“Nice banner,” Joe muttered as he fiddled with an unlit cigarette.

“Thanks, my friend Paul came up with that. Catchy, huh?” Olson glanced at the sleeping smoke Joe twirled between his thumb and index finger.

“It's…an interesting slogan,” Joe replied. He tried on a smile, but in his current state, could only muster a weak smirk.

Olson turned around, appearing to admire the flashy black-and-yellow banner, and then smiled back at Joe. “I like it.”

Joe gave a small laugh. “Well, it's definitely you.”

He followed Olson's gaze as it returned to the unlit cigarette in his hand. “What can I do for you today, Sheriff?”

Joe wasn't sure how or where to start. He decided to be straightforward with his old friend. “Barlow, it would appear Gilson Creek has a…a werewolf problem.”

“No shit, Sheriff. What can I do to help?”

Ted McKinney managed to secure himself a gun—a Glock just like Dwayne's. The bastard at the gun shop denied ever having sold silver bullets. Told Ted he watched too many monster movies
. Fucking asshole.

A little research after the fact led Ted to SBBulletForgers.com, an online company in the Southwest that made and sold real silver bullets. Wolf killers is what they called them. The tracking said his package was due tomorrow. He hoped it wasn't a scam. He'd spent two hundred dollars on the box of ammo. The bullets had used the last of the tour money he'd saved. His time at the Lobster Motorway Inn was over.

In his time at the Lobster, he'd learned more than where to buy wolf killers. He'd entered chat room after chat room on different sites: WolfenAround.com, WerewolvesandVampires.net, unrealreality.net and, the most useful, Monstersamongus.com.

The Monsters Among Us site focused on myths and folklore in the States. Areas like New Mexico and South Texas where chupacabra sightings were heavy. Also, they talked a lot about a valley of the undead in Alaska, where a clan of vampires supposedly lived. There were also the Mothman myths of the Southeast, and Helltown in Ohio. It all sounded like the work of some very creative minds, but the werewolf story he found reported in Northern Maine from 1996 was too close to home to ignore.

In early 1996 a Jackman resident, Norman Megill, an avid black-bear hunter, disappeared while hunting in the town of Allagash. Friends reported finding him at his home several weeks later. They said he was aggressive, not his normal hearty self. His cousin, Jason Collins, reported that Norman confessed to being attacked and bitten by a monster wolf that walked upright like a man. Said that it happened while he waited out the bear he'd been tracking. Collins claimed Megill bore no wounds or scars consistent with his supposed attack and grew hostile when asked about the missing marks. A year later, a series of deaths in and around Jackman were reported. Collins and Megill both went missing shortly afterwards.

Ted found that the mutilations described in the bodies they found matched both what he'd seen in the
Crypto Insider
picture taken by Nick Bruce in '97 and what he'd seen left of Old Mike in Paulson Park. The only difference, as far as Ted was concerned, was that a large animal attack in that part of the state was much more plausible. Still, locals reported all sorts of “wolfman-like” activities. No more bodies were found past the first set, but the number of missing persons increased. The site reported that the disappearances coincided with the full moons.

At the bottom of the Jackman stories, there was a list of misconceptions about werewolves. There was no name attached to this list, but Ted copied it all down anyway. The one that caught his eye was that silver bullets caused serious damage, but acted more like a poison. In order to kill the beast you must behead the monster. The last one on the list scared him the most—the werewolf could change into its bestial form at any time during a full moon, whether the moon was high in the sky, shining bright, or still waiting for the sun to give way. Pretty much, the monster could stalk its prey in the light of day just as easily as it could at night. Ted hadn't heard any of this before, but that's what made them stand out. And he wasn't about to take any chances. He'd grab a whole box of ammo and the nice shiny ax he had at home. If you're going to do a job right, you better have all the right tools.

Nick Bruce walked through the aisles of Jenner's Grocery picking up vegetables and side items he had no intention of consuming. The main course was what it was all about. He'd always been a steak guy, but in recent days he'd taken the love for red meat to the next level. His latest self-prepared meals had mostly consisted of warmed-up hamburgers. A slight brown to the outside, pink throughout. But they didn't suit his craving.

Two days ago, his mother purchased two nice big steaks from Nelson's Meat Market for her and Jerry's one-year anniversary dinner. She left to visit one of her old high school friends that afternoon. Nick stumbled upon the juicy treats in the fridge. A pull, like a recovering alcoholic left alone with a bottle of whiskey, overcame him. He took the plate to his room and devoured the raw meat.

When his mom got home and found the steaks missing, she came to his door, but not one foot closer. She hadn't dared to tell him what to do since that day in the kitchen. She cried.

That night, he woke from another fever dream of black death and torn flesh. He was nearly crippled by the pains that racked his body. He'd vomited blood before, but this was darker, like something out of his dreams.

Since then, he'd been consuming nothing but steak and raw hamburger. The sickness hit him each and every night, but the pull was too strong to deny.

“Picking up some more steaks?” Alan Cormier said.

“Yeah, three of the fattest and freshest you've got.”

“Man, you're eating like a king. What have you been doing for work? I've seen that Full Moon shit in the
Insider
. You working that old scene again?”

“Sure,” he lied.

“You must be making bank. That shit is hot right now. Tomorrow night's the big one, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Hold up, I'll get you some cuts from the back.”

“Eating like a man, huh?”

The gruff voice startled him. The hulking form of Gilson Creek's former loony-bin sheriff, Stan Springs, stood like a mountain at his side.

“Yeah, they're for my mom and her boyfriend's anniversary.” He didn't know why he offered up an excuse, but like the draw to the meat, he just felt the need.

“How's your arm these days?”

“My arm?”

“Sorry. I saw you a couple weeks ago with it bandaged up.”

“Oh that. I…”

“Here you go, Nick. Three of my best,” Alan said. “Oh, hey. What can I get for you, sir?”

Nick grabbed the white packages from Alan's hand.

“Nothing for me. I was just looking.” Springs nodded to Alan. “I've got to leave some room in these old guts.” He turned his head to Nick. “Preparing for a feast this weekend.”

The former sheriff walked away. Alan shrugged at Nick.

A hunger pain struck his insides. Without a word, Nick strolled to the front of the store. He tucked the meat packages into his waistband, paid for his other groceries and hurried around to the back of the store. He tossed the carrots and the box of rice to the ground and ripped out one of the stolen steaks…

As he tore through the blood-drenched delicacy, he couldn't help but feel like he was being watched.

Stan stood behind the trees, with a clear view of the young man eating meat behind the grocery store. He could smell the raw sustenance. His stomach growled. He'd been keeping tabs on Bruce since the guy had come out of his house a couple weeks back, but hadn't decided whether or not to have a real talk with him. Stan wanted to see what kind of monster he would make.

Joe was semi-stunned by Olson's response. Olson must have seen it on his face.

“Sheriff, I've been around these parts for a long time. I worked this shop when I was sixteen. I stood right here next to my daddy back when it was his. There was one thing my father used to always say. ‘Barlow, my boy, there ain't nothin' impossible.' A lot of parents say that to encourage their children, give 'em a little boost, but my daddy was talkin' about something else.”

“Is that right?” Joe placed the cigarette between his lips.

“Why don't you come out back with me? I'll join you for one of those.”

Joe pulled the pack from his front pocket and drew one out for Olson.

“Come on.” Olson accepted the cigarette, stepped out from behind the counter and nodded toward the back of the store.

Joe followed the mountain past a wall of swords straight out of a samurai movie. The big man pushed open the back door. Natural light spilled warmth into the room.

Olson slapped a Zippo against his thigh and lit his cigarette. He straightened his arm and sparked Joe's.

Joe took a drag and exhaled. “You were saying about your daddy?”

“My daddy was friends with a hunter by the name of Silas Wyatt. Big game, mostly. Black bears, moose. One day Silas comes into the shop, stone-cold sober, and says, ‘Olson, I need you to do me a favor.' Daddy says, ‘What's that?' Silas says, ‘Need me some silver bullets.' Daddy turns to me and asks me to get him some aspirins from out back.”

Olson takes a couple of puffs from his cigarette and continues, “I stop at the curtain that used to divide the back area from the front of the shop and listen. Daddy says, ‘Only one thing needs silver bullets.' Silas says, ‘I know. That's why I'm comin' to you.'”