R.S. Guthrie - Detective Bobby Mac 02 - L O S T (8 page)

“Try his cell phone,” she said.

“Cell phone? Ah, no. The man lives in the eighth century technologically speaking.”

“There’s really only one place where a technologically-challenged bibliophile in need of research would go.”

“Public library.”

“Viva la Dewey Decimal.”

“You need to work on your Spanish. That might be exciting later on.”

“Let’s go, Cariño.”

~ ~ ~

We found Meyer burrowed down in a cubical in the darkest corner of the town library, surrounded by a stack of books three feet high. Two or three were opened in front of him. His eyes were blood red.

“Did you know this area was settled by French Canadian trappers and miners?”

“Jax mentioned something about that. Hadn’t thought much about it,” I said. “But
Coeur d’Alene
doesn’t conjure images of a Germanic settlement.”

 “I found a reference,” he said. “To bête noire.”

“Black beast,” I said. “Same as Father Terrence’s journal.”

“Yes and no. Same reference, the literal translation anyway. Turns out, however,
bête noire is
more appropriately used as a term of extreme anathema. I—it references the cursed. Or the damned.”

“I’m assuming there is more.”

“Indeed,” Meyer said. “The early Native Americans met here by the French were called
Coeur d’Alene
by the trappers, in reference to their shrewd trading practices. The name’s reference is believed to be
heart of the awl
, or
shrewd-hearted
. The Coeur d’Alene Indians believed in a beast—the creature of nek’we’ aldarench, or ‘one moon’—an evil presence that stalked pre-teen children for sacrifice to the evil God
Hamaltmsh
, loosely translated
fly god
.”

“Loosely translated?” I said.

“The Coeur d’Alene language was almost exclusively spoken, not written. So textual references are a bit spotty. Most importantly, this creature stalked under the “one moon”. Every two to three years, there is an
extra
full moon. A second full moon in what we know as our calendar month.”

“A blue moon,” Amanda said.

“Yes. The Coeur d’Alene called it ‘one moon’. The Clergy used to refer to an extra moon as a ‘belewe’ or ‘betrayer’ moon.”

“And the beast stalks during this time…this one moon?” I said.

“According to legend,” Meyer said. “The sacrifice occurs on the one night of the nek’we aldarench.”

“When is the next
one moon
?”

“October thirtieth.”

“That’s the day after tomorrow,” I said.

~ ~ ~

The Scottish temper, at least as I know it, is a very real thing. It may also be the stuff of legends—portrayed as almost cartoonish at times; the brunt of jokes and funny sketches—but I can attest to its authenticity. There are times when there is absolutely nothing one can do about controlling it—particularly the one who is afflicted—and one might as well give in to the ride.

Such hotheadedness did not make the Macaulay relationships any easier to maintain.

Jax had invited Meyer, Amanda, and me out to his ranch for breakfast. Afterward we planned to join the search parties. There was no new information, and the rank and file of the volunteers were beginning to crack under the stress of knowing a young child could have been exposed to the elements (and God knew what else) for almost eight days. Additionally, the search parties had little more to go on than the day they began the search.

The Macaulay ranch is forty acres of property a few miles outside the town limits, nestled in a wooded valley with a roaring stream running through the middle of the land, providing plentiful, natural irrigation. It’s really a gorgeous location.

Part of the reason for the size is the fact that my brother and his family raise suri alpacas. Now I can barely keep my domesticated canines fed and watered (and I’ve never been able to keep a plant alive for more than a few days at best), so I’ve never understood how a member of my family ended up raising
anything
, much less a herd of docile beasts that looked no different to me from llamas.

Apparently the business was very lucrative. Trish, Jax’s wife of eighteen years, managed the bulk of the selling, purchasing, and breeding of the smelly animals. There was a single springtime fleecing each year, a big event whereby other members of the community traveled to the Macaulay ranch to help with the shearing (I do not know if they roped the alpacas, or drugged them—honestly I did not care to know the details). Trish also handled the business finances, so I really didn’t think my brother had all that much to do with the ugly beasts. I made the mistake of telling him so while he grilled breakfast burritos on the back deck.

“How’s Trish’s business doing? Still a lot of money in smelly llama fur?” I said, playfully.

“You know damn well it’s
our
business. And they’re not llamas.”

“But the fur still stinks something fierce, you have to admit.”

“Are you picking a fight, or simply brewing one in your own mind?” Jax said.

“Ah, whatever, Jax. I’ve never witnessed you lift a finger to care for those beasts out there in the pasture. If your manhood is threatened by the woman in your life making a go of your business, I apologize.”

The punch came from way low, him still holding the wooden handle of the spatula as his fist split my lip. I reacted, wrapping the crook of my elbow around his neck, locked it, and rolled, surprising him with the leverage. We went to the ground together, but I had the advantage. For the moment.

I kept the headlock and punched him with my other fist. Three times, four. We’d fought like this many times in our youth (and even a few times in adulthood) and I knew when he broke free—and he
would
break free—his size and considerable abilities would outmatch me. He knew me too well.

Trish came rushing through the French doors, yelling for us to stop.

I quit punching but did not release my brother. He was still far too pissed off, as was I.

“Call it off,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Fuck you,” Jax said.

“Call it off before your girls get out here and see us.”

“Jackson, please,” Trish said. “Stop this.”

Jax put his arms out to his sides. “Done,” he said. “Get the fuck off me.”

I let go and rolled away, climbing quickly to my feet.

Jax stood slowly, wiping blood from his broken nose. “Jesus, you punch like a fucking
girl
.”

“Had to get my licks in quick.”

“Smart plan,” he said. “Let’s get the burritos off the grill before they burn.”

~ ~ ~

We were eating when the call came in from the precinct. Jax took the phone into the family room and then ran back into the kitchen nook where we were putting down the delicious breakfast he’d mastered on the grill.

He looked as if the wind had been stolen from him.

“What?” I said to him.

“There are two more,” he said.

“Two more what?” Meyer said, but I knew.

So did Amanda.

~ ~ ~

Sarah Jennings and Elise Porter, each approximately the same age as Melissa Grant, had disappeared, presumably in the middle of the night. Both sets of parents said their daughters went to bed at a normal hour, nothing out of the ordinary. No strange sounds, no dogs barking. Both alarmed houses had remained silent. No sign of forced entry.

In the morning, the girls’ rooms were simply empty, beds made as if they’d never slept there. The Porter parents stated they had actually looked in on Elise before they went to bed themselves. According to them, she was sound asleep, under the covers. Marcia Jennings claimed her daughter’s room was a mess the evening before. They found it spotless as well as empty the next morning.

Meyer went back to the hotel and Jax took Amanda and me to the first crime scene, at the Porter residence. The family lived what appeared to be a fairly common middleclass existence. Elise’s room was exactly as described; it did not look much like a place of abduction. Nothing was disturbed, there were no tracks, and I doubted the forensic investigators were going to find any useful prints or DNA.

Too clean.

I put on latex gloves and looked through the trash can, under the sheets and pillows, beneath the bed. Nothing.

“Here’s something,” Amanda said from the other side of the room. Between her gloved index and middle fingers was a folded piece of paper.

“This was in one of the girl’s tennis shoes,” she said.

Amanda unfolded the paper to reveal a drawing of a symbol in the middle of the page. Jax and I examined the drawing.

“Seems too detailed for a child,” I said.

“Maybe,” said Jax. “Unser, get John Porter…he was downstairs in the study.”

When the deputy had retrieved Elise Porter’s father Jax asked him:

“Have you seen this drawing before?”

“No. Where did you find it?”

“It was in her closet, in a shoe.”

“Elise doesn’t draw. I’ve never even seen her doodle.”

Thanks, John.” Jax motioned to Unser and the deputy walked John Porter from his daughter’s room.

“Bag this,” he told a member of the CSI team. His cell rang.

“Chief Macaulay.”

After a few unintelligible grunts, he disconnected the call.

“CSI team found another drawing. This one is of a man.”

“In Sarah Jennings’ room,” I said.

Jax nodded. 

~ ~ ~

“Things like this just don’t happen in my town,” Jax said, driving us through the backstreets of Rocky Gap.