Cold Sanctuary (John Decker Series Book 2) (13 page)

30

Verne Nolan, sole proprietor of the town’s bait and tackle shop, lay awake in his cramped quarters above the store and stared at the ceiling. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was past midnight already. He let out a small groan of frustration. He hated nights like this, nights when his mind refused to turn off. He had not always been that way; that particular gift was bestowed upon him after the Gulf War. At first it had been nightmares, terrible dreams of war and destruction, of all the things he had done and seen in the shifting sands of Iraq. But then as time went on, the bad dreams turned to something else, something that was almost worse in its own way. Insomnia. The upside to this new development had been that he was spared the horrors that awaited when he climbed into bed and closed his eyes. The downside was that he spent a good proportion of his nights wide awake, yet exhausted at the same time. Not even the doctors at the Veteran’s Association clinic in Anchorage could fix it. They just put it down to posttraumatic stress, and gave him some horse pills that did little to ease the symptoms. Later, they added sedatives, but all they did was make him groggy, so he stopped taking them after a few weeks.

Now here he was again, studying the same crack in the ceiling, a snaking, meandering gap in the plaster, that he had fixated on during so many sleepless nights. After a while he swung his legs from the bed and pulled on a pair of tatty jeans and a polo shirt. Fresh air always helped, cleared his head, quieted the voices.

He padded across the room, out into the living room, and down the back stairs to the shop. He reached the front door and pulled back the deadbolt and chain, then leaned heavily against the doorframe for a moment and breathed a long, drawn out sigh.

Out in the bay a small boat, maybe a cabin cruiser, moved across the water with lights ablaze, its hull cutting a thin silver wake that trailed behind, a pale line against the otherwise black water. The low drone of the engine carried on the wind, disturbing the otherwise peaceful silence that descended on the bay after dark.

Verne watched the vessel for a few minutes as it cut a diagonal path across his field of vision. The boat took a turn north, out toward the mouth of the bay, and before long was nothing more than a shimmering point of light in the darkness. Soon that too disappeared, extinguished by distance and the curve of the Earth.

He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, forgetting for a moment that he had quit the previous spring. Damn. It was one of the only things that calmed his nerves, but it was also a major contributor to the emphysema that had plagued him in recent years. While the condition was mild right now, it would get worse if he continued to smoke. Always a practical man, Verne had finished up his last pack and then made a vow never to touch another cigarette.

He glanced toward the town, to the tower that housed most of the residents of Shackleton. There were only a few lights on, glowing yellow squares against the dull grey façade of the building. He wondered if the people behind those windows were awake, just like him, or if they had left a lamp burning when they went to bed. He had no idea which, but somehow the thought that there were others out there still awake filled him with a measure of comfort, and he didn’t feel quite so alone.

He strolled down to the dock, to the wooden jetty that pushed out into the water. On both sides small boats rocked back and forth on the tide. There were three or four fishing vessels, their decks covered with nets, a small yacht, and several skiffs. He paused for a moment, his hands in his pockets, and took a deep breath, relishing the smell of the salt laden air.

Beyond the dock there was nothing but flat, open blackness. He walked to the end and stared out, listening to the water lap at the pilings that held the dock in place, a rhythmic back and forth that was soothing.

There was a splash off to his left. 

Verne turned and looked in the direction of the new sound but saw nothing. He turned his attention frontward once again. It was probably just a fish, or more likely, a sea otter out looking for food. The furry mammal, of which there were hundreds in and around the bay, was equally at home hunting at night as in the day, and the hours after midnight were a prime time to forage.

He stood there for a while longer, lost in thought, before turning back toward the docks. He hadn’t gone more than two steps before there was a second splash, much closer this time.

He came to a halt and peered over the edge of the dock, expecting to see an otter there, but instead, staring up at him from under the water, was a face.

He stumbled away, alarmed.

His heart was thumping, and he could feel the familiar tingle of adrenalin mixed with fear. What had he just seen?

He gathered his courage and glanced over the edge again.

There was nothing but dark, swirling water.

He scanned the open water, the spaces between the boats, but all was quiet.

He shook his head. Had he imagined the face? It almost possessed a human quality, with strange eyes and an odd mouth. He lingered for a moment longer searching the waters around the dock, but everything was normal. Even so, he felt uneasy. A glimmer of apprehension writhed in his stomach.

He didn’t want to be out on the pier anymore.

He hurried toward the dock, back to the open door of the bait and tackle shop, and stepped inside, locking the door behind him.

Relieved, he leaned against the wall, taking long, measured breaths. He knew just about every animal that lived in or around the lake, and that wasn’t any of them. He crossed the room and went behind the counter, finding the loaded gun that he kept there, a .57 pistol. Shackleton was a safe place. He had never once thought to carry the weapon except when he was hunting, but now he relished the feel of the piece in his hand. The door was locked, he was safe, but he still felt ill at ease. An image of that face in the water, a few inches below the surface, looking up with those strange milky white eyes, sent a shudder through him. The logical explanation was that it was just a fish, but there was no fish he knew of that possessed features so human. So what did that leave, a dead body caught under the dock? It wasn’t a common occurrence, but people had been found floating in the bay before. More often than not it was after a storm. The Alaskan weather was unforgiving, and more than one vessel had found itself on the receiving end of a sudden squall. There were at least ten boats of varying shapes and sizes wrecked on the bottom of the bay, and maybe more, but he didn’t recall any recent sinkings. Besides, the face didn’t look like any floater he’d ever seen. It looked… alive.

Verne pushed the thought from his mind. Whatever it was, it was gone and there was no point in dwelling on it. He had learned long ago that there were certain things that defied explanation, especially up here in the wilderness. He also knew that the mind could play tricks. The brain looked for human features, was hard wired to see them in unrelated objects. It was called Face Pareidolia. He’d seen a dead fish, perhaps a Buffalo Cod, which could grow pretty large, and his mind had filled in the blanks.

He yawned and stepped from behind the counter. He might as well go back to the bedroom and lie down. There was no point in dwelling upon things he might never know the answer to. He was exhausted. He might as well crawl back into bed and maybe, if he were lucky, sleep would find him.

He turned toward the back stairs, had taken no more than a step forward, when his eye was drawn by a slight movement in the shadows off to his left. He raised the gun out of instinct, and turned toward the disturbance. What he saw next made his blood run cold.

31

Sheriff Don Wilder stood tall with his feet planted one in front of the other, his gun trained on Mina and Decker. He nodded toward the bulge in Decker’s jacket. “Open the coat.”

“Why?” Decker knew he was in a no win situation. If he refused, the sheriff could arrest him for obstruction, and if he complied, Wilder would see the pistol. “We haven’t done anything wrong. Like I said, we are just out for a walk.”

“In an abandoned building at midnight?” Wilder must have seen the look of resignation on Decker’s face. “Yeah, that’s right. I saw you climb out of the window over there.”

“So what?” Decker knew he was on thin ice. “There were no signs saying the place was off limits.”

“The locked doors with chains on them didn’t give that away?” Wilder waved his gun. “Now open the goddamned jacket before I arrest you.”

“Okay.” Decker lowered his arm. He unzipped the jacket and let it fall open, and then put his hands back in the air. He didn’t want to give the sheriff any cause to shoot him “There. Happy?”

Wilder’s eyes flicked down to the gun protruding from Decker’s waist. “Mind telling me about that?”

“What about it?”

“Really, you’re going to play innocent?” Wilder shook his head. “I thought you were smarter, I really did. You didn’t bring a gun with you, because I had to loan you one when we were in the basement, so where did you get that?”

“It’s all legal and above board.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Wilder narrowed his eyes. “You are aware that only persons with Alaska ID’s can purchase firearms in this state, aren’t you?”

“Of course.” Decker replied, keeping the annoyance out of his voice as much as possible. “But I didn’t buy the gun.”

“Really?” Wilder raised an eyebrow. “Did it just appear out of thin air?”

“It was provided for me.”

“Hayley Marsh.” A flash of anger crossed Wilder’s face. “That woman should stick to shuffling paperwork and let the professionals do their job.”

“I agree,” Decker said. “So why don’t we try and work together to get to the bottom of what is killing your town folk rather than bickering.”

“Work together, huh?” Wilder said. “A couple of professionals.”

“Exactly.”

“Except you’re not a professional, are you?” Wilder’s mouth twitched into a momentary grin. “You’re an unemployed nut job who sees monsters around every corner. I don’t need your brand of help, thank you very much.”

“Fair enough.” Decker knew better than to try and convince the sheriff of his usefulness. He had encountered more than one person with this attitude over the last several months, and had learned from bitter experience that it was impossible to alter their preconceptions. The sad fact was that most people were not willing to entertain anything beyond the realm of their own belief system. “So where does that leave us?”

“It leaves us with a little problem,” Wilder said. “Right now I’m thinking a couple of charges of trespassing. I’ll throw in breaking and entering, since you forced a window, and then there’s the matter of the gun, which I might go ahead and list as stolen. I think that covers everything.”

“That’s not fair.” Mina spoke for the first time, her face flush with indignation. “We haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Well now, that’s a matter of opinion, young lady.” Wilder chuckled. “A day or two in the cells should give you plenty of time to think on it though.”

“You don’t have the right.”

“Actually I do.” Wilder seemed to be enjoying himself. “I’m the sheriff, which means I make the rules. I run this town.”

“You’re a pig.” She spat the words. “Nothing but a petty jackass on a power trip.”

“I think I might add resisting arrest to the charges.”

“Now just…”

“Easy there.” Decker interrupted her. “Don’t give him the satisfaction. He’s baiting you.”

“You’re just going to let him treat us like this?”

“Doesn’t look like we have much choice.” Decker turned to Wilder. “I’m growing tired of this. If you’re going to arrest us just get it over with.”

“Oh, I’m not going to arrest you. Not right now anyway.” Wilder fixed Decker with a deadpan stare. “But if I catch either one of you within a hundred yards of my investigation again, if you so much as look my way, I’m going to throw you both in jail and lose the keys. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal.” Decker replied through clenched teeth.

“Excellent.” Wilder smiled. “Then I think we have an understanding.”

Mina looked horrified. “You’re going to let him get away with this?”

“I don’t think we have much choice,” Decker replied. It irked him that Wilder had backed them into a corner, but there was nothing he could do, at least not right now. He decided to talk to Hayley the following morning. She might not have any control over the sheriff, but she was still town administrator, and that had to count for something.

Wilder read his mind. “Oh and Decker, I wouldn’t go running to that prissy little town administrator if I were you. It won’t get you anywhere, and you don’t want to piss me off.”

32

Verne Nolan stood rooted to the spot, paralyzed by the sight before him.

The creature stood six feet tall on two muscular legs, with a pale, almost human looking face that belied the true nature of the thing, thanks in part to the mouth, which contained rows of teeth that would have been more at home on a shark than any mere man. Its thick, muscular body was covered in tough looking scales that gave it the appearance of a fish, and when it looked back at him with those white, unnatural eyes, he felt a shudder of revulsion.

Nolan had spent years fighting in the Second Gulf War, and came back a broken man thanks to the atrocities he’d witnessed, the awful human cost of armed conflict. But none of it came close to the fear he now felt when confronted with this monstrosity. He took a step backward, forgetting the gun for a moment.

His mind raced.

This was the same animal he’d seen out on the pier, only now it was here, inside his shop, and he’d locked himself inside with it. Any doubt regarding the identity of the intruder, that it was the same face he’d seen in the water, was put to rest by the pool of water collecting around the creature’s feet. It must have swam to the dock, pulled itself from the bay, and entered the store to lay in wait for him. All while he was still at the end of the pier contemplating what he had just witnessed. A stupid mistake for someone trained in combat. You never let your enemy get the drop on you.

The creature opened its mouth and let forth a shrill warbling screech, the sound inhuman and chilling.

Verne remembered the pistol clutched in his palm. He took aim, and without a moment’s hesitation, squeezed the trigger.

The boom was deafening in the small space.

A brief muzzle flash lit up the room as the bullet flew toward its mark.

The creature was spun sideways by the impact, hit high on the right shoulder. It staggered backwards and used the wall to prop itself up, regain its balance, then turned to him once more.

Verne was shocked to see no sign of a wound.

Surely he hadn’t missed? Not at such close quarters.

He brought the gun to bear and fired again, sending the creature backwards a second time.

Once more it turned toward him without so much as a scratch. There was no way he’d missed twice. Besides, the bullets had found their mark, driving the creature away both times. And yet it was unharmed. There was no blood, no entry wound. It was almost as if the scales, which at first glance looked like nothing more than those found on a simple fish, were providing the thing with some sort of armor plating.

He looked down at the gun, then back at the slowly advancing creature, and made a split second decision.

He turned and ran.

Verne bolted toward the front door, but the creature ducked to the side and blocked his path. He spun and headed for the back stairs, careening into a display stand full of glow in the dark lures along the way, sending it crashing to the ground. When he reached the stairs he cast a swift glance backward, only to discover that the creature was close behind. He waved the gun backwards and fired a quick succession of shots, the retort jarring his arm, blasts causing his ears to ring, but achieving little else except to cause his pursuer to slow up as the bullets whizzed past.

He took the stairs two at a time, his mind racing, heart thumping in his chest. The creature was still pursuing. He could hear the old boards creak as it started up the stairs after him. He mustered all his energy and put in an extra spurt of speed. If he could just reach the second floor, slam the door, he might be able to buy some time, find his cell phone and call for help.

At that exact moment, as the thought ran through his head, his foot caught on the lip of a stair. He felt himself pitch forward, hit the stairs with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs. His arm caught under him, sending a wave of pain crashing through his body, but there was no time to waste. Without even a moment’s hesitation he started to push himself erect again, but then, just as he was about to regain his feet, the creature reached him.

A hand clutched at his ankle, ensnaring it in a vice-like grip. He felt sharp talons dig into the skin, drawing blood, sending sharp daggers of pain shooting up his leg. He cried out, kicking with his free leg, hoping to dislodge his attacker, but the foot sailed to the right and found only empty air.

He felt himself being dragged backwards, back down into the store, as the creature tried to reel him in, position itself for a more substantial attack.

Verne twisted, looked back, and raised his free foot again, kicking back hard, finding the creature’s face this time. Hitting its target.

There was a satisfying crunch of bone and the grip on his ankle loosened. He kicked again, delivering another powerful blow, and then he was free.

Verne stumbled to his feet, fear and adrenalin propelling him forward. He took a step forward, then another, the top of the stairs growing ever closer. He reached the top step, planted a foot inside his living quarters, and turned to slam the door.

He never got the chance.

At that moment, in the split second between turning, and pushing the door closed, the creature struck again, hitting Verne in the chest and sending him reeling.

He careened into a coffee table and lost his balance, falling backwards, his back striking the table with enough force to shatter it, shards of wood flying in all directions. His head bounced on the hard floor, dazing him. He tasted blood in his mouth and realized that he had bitten the end of his tongue as he fell, cleaving the tip clean off. A sharp throb pulsed from the site of the wound.

The creature was in the room now.

It advanced, sensing that its prey was done for.

Verne pushed backwards, his eyes wide with fear.

It hurt to move. It hurt a lot.

He let out a howl of pain, but all that emerged was a sloppy gurgle. He felt blood tricking down his chin, felt the ache where his back contacted the coffee table, and the throb of his wounded ankle, but none of that compared to the agony when the creature fell on him. It sat astride him and pinned him to the floor, its mouth wide, sharp teeth ripping and tearing, deadly claws slicing him open, gutting him like a fish.

As Verne wavered on the edge of unconsciousness, as the pain reached a crescendo of unimaginable proportions, the creature lifted its head and let out a victorious shriek.