Blood and Rain (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Melanie Murdock entered through the back door to her café. She couldn't stay cooped up in her house alone any longer. Joe had begged and pleaded for her to hide away with her movie monsters for the night. He'd succeeded in creeping her out. She found herself jumping at every shadow, at every scrape of a branch of the big apple tree out back, against her den window, and at every minuscule creak of the floorboards.

She kept seeing Stan Springs sitting in her driveway, wearing that awful smile. She thought she saw him standing at the shaded end of the hallway, clawing at her den window and creeping around in the other room.

Joe had promised to have his deputies doing periodic drive-bys to make sure she was okay, but it wasn't enough to ease her paranoia. She waved down Deputy Clarke on his last run by and told him she needed to go in to work. He offered to drive her.

Stan Springs hadn't set foot in the café since Joe had spoken with him. She'd not even seen the man since the night in her driveway. Her friend Heather said she'd seen him down at Gil's once or twice. She said he sat there drinking alone and talking to himself. Mel didn't care, so long as he stayed away from her business.

Upon dropping her off at the back entrance to the café, Deputy Clarke assured her that he would be in the area when she was ready for her escort home.

Katie Brooks entered the tiny break room as Mel was looking through the minifridge.

“Hey, Mel, I didn't know you were working tonight,” Katie said.

Mel noticed the barely seventeen-year-old waitress slyly trying to slip her pack of Camels into her purse. “Where else would a girl rather be on a Friday night?”

“Yeah right, I know where I'd be,” Katie said. She grabbed her name tag from the small, brown tray on the table in the center of the room.

“Oh yeah, where's that? Jeremy's house?” Melanie had stepped away from the lone break-room window as she egged her young employee on. “Out on a hot date?”

Katie blushed. “No! I'm not that kind of girl.”

“Oh really? Where exactly would an innocent princess such as yourself be found on a Friday evening? If she wasn't working at the greatest café on earth, that is?” Melanie said.

“At the beach, of course,” Katie said.

“Of course. Well, my dear, why don't you go get your sunscreen and your beach towel, and go live out your dreams.”

Katie's mouth dropped. “What? Are you serious? But I just got here.”

“It's up to you, darlin'. I have nothing better to do tonight. If you want a free night—” Melanie began.

Katie hugged her. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

“Don't go thinking this is going to be some kind of regular thing. I want to have some Friday nights on the town too, you know.” Melanie smiled at the prospect of getting to spend those nights with Joe.

“Thank you, Mel. You are the most awesome boss on the planet.” Katie fished her purple cell phone out of her purse.

“Yeah, yeah, now get outta here before I decide that I'm the one who needs to go swimming.” She watched Katie hurry to the time clock, her phone already to her ear.

Katie punched out, mouthed
thank you
to Mel, waved and headed out the door.

Nick Bruce dragged the broken body of Joel O'Brien behind a large rock just beyond the electronics the man had been working on. A trail of the blood from Joel's shredded throat traced their path.

“Yo, Joel?”

Wes Kaplan
.
Two birds…
Nick slunk down in the shade of the trees.

“Joel? Where the fuck are you, man? Don't tell me you actually convinced one of these country bumpkins to play with your dick? What the hell?”

Wes dropped the fast`food bag and cup holder of Cokes to the ground. His eyes locked on to the crimson path.

“Hi, Wes.” Nick's voice was unrecognizable to his own ears. It squeezed through his throat like his voice box was constricted.

“Nick?”

“In the…flesh,” he said. Nick stepped from behind the tree. Joel's blood covered his hairy, thick-muscled forearms.

“Are…what…you're…” Wes said.

Nick laughed—or at least he offered something that still passed as a laugh—as Wes's face turned white. Nick was enjoying the ghostly effect his new look was having on everyone. “Shhrr.”

Wes turned to run.

Nick flung his new body forward and threw his right claw into the back of the fleeing
Crypto Insider
editor.

Wes Kaplan whimpered.

Nick's clawed hand slammed through the meat on the back of his former boss and wrapped around his spine. Blood gushed over his widening wrist. The dark hair on his arms extended. Nick could see his blackened lips protruding past his wet nose. He pulled Wes to his broadened chest. “
I'm
your headline now.”

Wes's eyes stared off into the ether. His dying breath escaped his pale lips.

Nick tightened his claws over the spine until he heard the bones crack. He flung Wes's body backwards. The carcass slammed into the tree he'd hidden behind and crumpled to the dirt.

The monstrous version of Nick began to devour his kills

The phone startled Randy Hines from another bad dream. He'd dozed off at his desk. He hadn't caught a single wink of sleep last night.

He picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

It was the sheriff. “Randy, I need you to grab Dwayne and have Rita call Shelly in. We need to prep them for tonight.”

Randy's hands grew clammy at the thought of tonight. “Will do, Joe.”

He hung up the hefty black receiver, wiped his palms on the tops of his knees and took in a deep breath. He'd struggled to come to grips with the beast of their past, but he had to admit, knowing they, or Joe rather, had stood face-to-face with the creature before and taken it down, made it a little bit easier to let that sliver of hope shine into his heart of hearts.

Shelly Glescoe picked up her cell phone on the second ring. “Hi, Rita, what's up?”

“Hey, Shelly, Joe wants you down at the station by three. Some kind of meeting, I guess.”

“What is it?” she said.

“Didn't say, just told me what to tell you.”

What the hell?
“Okay, Rita. I'll be there.”

She had no idea what this urgent meeting could be about. Had she missed something? She called Dwayne, but got his voice mail.

Fuck it, I'm not waiting until three.

Shelly Glescoe put on her uniform, grabbed her gun and headed down to the station.

Ted pulled his bike up behind his nephew's black-and-gold Camaro.
Goddammit.
He'd haul Alex home by his ears if he had to. He stuck his helmet in the saddlebag and hefted his other bag of wolf-killing goodies over his shoulder.

He spotted Alex and Sonya Fischer not far from the steps to the beach.

“Alex. Sonya.”

“Did you bring the beach toys?” Alex said.

“Yeah. Listen, you're going to think I'm a dick, but today I don't give a fuck. You guys need to go home.”

“What are you talking about? I just got here.”

“Yeah, and there's a pretty ugly storm coming. Look at the clouds over there.”

The weather report he'd read all morning was spot on. Black clouds were gathering west of the lake. Maybe there were twenty minutes left before the rain would start to fall.

Sonya stayed quiet at his side.

“Your father know you're out here? I'd bet not.”

“Leave her alone. Did you come out here just to bust my balls? Oh shit, wait…is this about the full moon?”

Ted watched his nephew roll on the beach.

“Oh my God. You've got to be fucking kidding me?”

“Alex.”

“You're out here trying to get me to go home because the wolfman is coming tonight.”

“Alex, shut up and listen to me. I'm trying to do the responsible thing here.”

“No, no.” Alex got up. His five-nine frame stood its ground. A number of onlookers were glued to the boiling scene. “What the hell is wrong with you, man? This last month, you…you've been out there. You skipped out on your band, you skipped out on your job. Like you give a fuck about responsibility. You're fucking losing it and now you're acting like an asshole.”

Ted dropped his bag to the sand and socked the boy in the mouth. Alex toppled over backwards and landed on Sonya. Voices murmured all around them.

Alex held his jaw and glared through Ted. “C'mon.” He took Sonya's hand. They gathered their things and joined Heath Jorgensen and Sonya's friend Kim, closer to the water.

“What the hell are you all looking at?” Ted said. He planted himself in the spot vacated by his fired-up nephew and watched the heated conversation he was having with his friends. Ted shook off his leather coat and pulled his smokes from the inner pocket. He lit up and waited to see if his jerk mode had been enough.

Joe Fischer arrived home hoping to touch base with Sonya before his long night began.

“Honey?”

The house was too quiet. He climbed the stairs. “Honey?” Nothing.

Fuck.
She'd disobeyed him.

He walked into her room and over to the window. The promised rain had arrived. He watched the rain fall in fat droplets dotting the street. His only solace was knowing the night was still far away. He had time to find her.

“How certain are you that this thing can only hunt at night?”

Ted McKinney's question whispered through his mind like a ghost. A chill ran up his spine. Where had Ted read that? In all of Joe's studies with Springs, they'd never run across that one. The image of Stan Springs this morning, standing at the door in his housecoat and sunglasses— Sunglasses? Something itched a murky spot in the corners of Joe's brain. His headache was back in spades.

He tromped down the stairs and poured a tumbler of whiskey. He stared at the gold liquid and said a silent prayer. He downed the fiery swallow and stepped out into the oncoming storm.

Sitting in his truck, holding an unlit cigarette, his thoughts switched back to the interesting conversation he'd had earlier this week with Barlow Olson as the large man handed him the custom-made boxes of silver ammunition that were now sitting next to him on the passenger seat.

“You can't just shoot these things. The silver will fuck the shit out of 'em. Drop 'em out of commission for a long-ass time, but it's not enough.

Now, with the blade in the back of his Range Rover, Joe headed toward the station, prepared to address his troops.

He prayed to Lucy that Sonya was just out grabbing something to eat and that she'd be on her way home soon.

Dwayne Clarke was the last to arrive at the station. Joe watched him walk in and stand next to Deputy Glescoe, who looked like she was going to gnaw her fingernails clean off. No one was talking.

Joe leaned against Glescoe's desk. His arms were folded across his chest. He turned to the rest of his squad, looking each of them in the eye, one after the other. He didn't want to do this. He could see the confusion and concern on both Clarke's and Glescoe's faces. Rita was here too, and she also looked worried. The only surprise was Hines.

The man had been all over the place for the last month, making everyone concerned for his well-being. The version of Randy Hines before him now was standing up straight and looking focused. He looked ready. This was the Randy he had come to admire over the last eight years or so. This is the man who diligently served his town and had, in that space of time, been Joe's right-hand man. For the first time since Somers and Paulson left Gilson Creek–Somers for the military, Paulson for a position in Arizona–Joe felt the weight of their absence lessen. Joe and Randy locked eyes and exchanged a quiet understanding between them. Hines nodded. He was ready.

Joe began the meeting.

“Okay, so we have everyone here.” He pulled out an overstuffed folder from behind him. “What I'm about to tell you never leaves this room.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Deputies Dwayne Clarke and Shelly Glescoe sat beside each other in utter disbelief. Joe Fischer's words kept playing repeatedly in Dwayne's mind.

“We're dealing with a beast that I have seen with my own eyes. I have shot and killed this…this thing before. It's not some random wild animal. It's not a maniac serial killer. It is a werewolf.”

Joe Fischer was not one to give in to an overactive imagination. He was an honest, God-fearing man. He was the sense in this town. He was the rock they all leaned on. If he was telling them that werewolves were real—they were.

Shelly broke the silence. “Do you think that's why Hines has been acting so strange?”

Her voice snapped him from his trance. “What?”

“Do you think Hines has been acting so strange because of all of this? I mean, Joe said Hines was with him that night, and that Randy saw it too. That's the kind of shit that could really mess you up. Hell, this kind of changes everything, doesn't it?”

She was right. This did change everything. It's not like they were fighting a deranged man or hunting a rabid fox. This wasn't even a goddam mountain lion. They were searching for a
monster
.

“Yeah, I think Randy's acting strange has everything to do with this. If it had been me—” He suddenly envisioned himself standing before the beast, in his daydream the monster looked like the version from that old horror movie
An American Werewolf in London
. He saw himself standing before it, gun drawn and aimed at its elongated snout, the beast drooling, staring him down with its yellowy eyes—

“Dwayne?”

“If we see this thing, if we come face-to-face with this…” He couldn't bring himself to say it aloud. “Well, I just don't know how you come out of a confrontation with something that's not supposed to exist and go back to acting like it was just another two-bit criminal,” he finally finished. He dropped his gaze to the floor.

“Do you think the sheriff trusts us?” she said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Didn't you see the way he looked at us when he told us to stay here until he called? I don't know…he just looked concerned. I think he's worried about us.”

Dwayne stood up, walked over to the coffee machine and poured himself another Styrofoam cup. He definitely did not need anything to stimulate his already shot nerves, but he couldn't sit still.

He thought of former deputy Paulson. He'd only worked with the man briefly before Paulson took a job out of state. When did Joe let him in on his werewolf theory? Had he told him and the other deputies immediately? Or had he waited until the night of the full moon to tell them as well? He was guessing it was the latter. The sheriff was a man with very broad shoulders. He looked out for all of his deputies. He had probably kept this whole damn thing to himself, to carry alone the weight of its psychological impact.

Or maybe Shelly's right. Maybe he thought they were too young, too inexperienced to handle this whole situation. Regardless, they were involved. They would be out there, under the full moon, searching every dark corner of Gilson Creek, alongside Sheriff Fischer and Deputy Hines. Dwayne looked past Rita's desk, toward the graying sky beyond the station's front windows. A storm was coming.

After a moment's thought Dwayne offered, “Maybe he is looking out for us, but I don't think that necessarily means he doesn't have faith in us as being able to do our jobs.”

“Maybe I was just projecting my own sense of deficiencies on him. I mean, aren't you scared?” she said, once again gnawing at her near-nonexistent nails.

“Hell yeah, I'm scared. You saw those bodies. This thing is capable of tearing us to pieces.” He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. He watched the woman he loved break down in tears. He went to her and pulled her into his arms, feeling the wetness on his shoulder. “Do you want to take a quick walk around the station? This is all pretty heavy stuff. Maybe some fresh air would help?” he offered.

She agreed, and they went out onto the front steps of the station.

Sonya convinced Alex to stop at her house before they went to Hollis Oaks. He needed to cool off a bit more after his bust up with his uncle, and she knew just how to help him relax, plus she figured after doing it, maybe Alex would change his mind about going to the movie and they could just hang there.

“You wanna take that off upstairs?” Sonya gave Alex her best come-hither look.

“You don't have to ask me twice.”

He lifted her up; her legs coiled around him. They kissed their way up the stairs and into her bedroom.

Something fell out of his jacket as he flung the leather coat to the floor.

“What's that?” Sonya said.

“That?” He glanced at the object on the floor. “Oh, my switchblade.”

“Switchblade? What are you, some kind of greaser now?”

“I always keep it on me, just in case,” he said. “What about your dad? He's not gonna come busting in is he?”

“I don't think he's coming home tonight. He did tell me that he wanted me to stay home. He said you guys could all crash here. He doesn't want us out.”

“Really? Like that night he made us stay at Kim's?”

“No, he wasn't that bad. I'm thinking it has something to do with Stan Springs.”

“Why? Did he mention him?”

“No, but that guy seems to be getting under my dad's skin pretty good. I think he's making a bigger deal out of it than he should.”

“Well, when he talked to me the way he did, it creeped me out. Has he seen him recently? I know I haven't.”

“I don't know, I don't care,” Sonya said. “Can we just forget about all that business for a little while? I want to have fun tonight.”

“You just wanna get all hot and bothered watching your boyfriend, James Franco.”

“I'm hot and bothered right now. So shut up and do something about it.”

After they were finished and dressed, they headed back down the stairs and toward the door.

“Hold up a minute. I want to write my dad a note, in case he does show up before we make it back.”

She grabbed the yellow notepad from the couch and flipped it over.

“Are you sure you wanna go to the movie tonight? Maybe we should just stay here so you don't get in trouble.”

There was her out. Still, there really hadn't been any attacks in a month. Hell with it. The movie was only a couple of hours long. They'd be back before nightfall.

“Yeah, we told Kim and Heath we'd meet them there. Besides, we'll be back before dark.”

“What about your dad?”

“You let me worry about him.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“I'm just gonna leave him a note and let him know we're all together and that we'll probably all be coming back here after the movie.”

It was dark outside. Not night, but the storm clouds looked like something out of a Tim Burton film. Dark, dreary, ominous. The wind and rain hammered at them as they ran to Alex's car. Sonya saw Mr. Donavan standing under the cover of his porch across the street.

He's probably out smoking his pipe before supper.

She gave him a quick wave and ducked into the car.

Allan Donavan smoked his pipe and watched as the car pulled away into the storm. He had an intense sense of foreboding as he watched the young lovebirds disappear.

You'd never catch me out in this kind of weather.

He was standing out on his porch under the protection of its gable roof. He was trying to enjoy the taste and aroma of the Cherry Cordial tobacco coming from his favorite pipe. It had always been his preferred after-dinner tobacco. Dot liked to have a couple of after-dinner mints; he always had his Cherry Cordial. There was this bitterness in his mouth tonight, though, that wasn't normally present.

They'd decided to eat supper early and hit the sack right after. He knew what kind of moon was coming tonight. He would finish his pipe and settle in for the night. Nothing good ever came out of a night with a full moon, especially not in this town. He'd lived in Gilson Creek longer than most, and he knew that town had a bad history that was irrevocably tied to what he himself referred to as Gilson Creek's blood moon. He snuffed his pipe out, placed it back in his shirt pocket, stepped back inside his house and locked the heavy door behind him.

Stan Springs threw his housecoat to the grass, took a deep breath and dropped to the ground. Long gone were the days when he tried to cage the beast, the days of attempting to fight the change. Long gone were the times of giving a shit about safety or compassion.

He allowed the first of the changes through. Control of the transformation was almost as thrilling as the kills. Black hairs rose from the epidermis of his arms, chest and legs. Muscles tensed and tore. His better half's teeth shoved the old enamel crowns from their home. He had to concentrate to halt the change at that.

Satisfied, he vanished into the sea of trees. He was hungry and it was time to feed. His first feast of the night wasn't more than a yard away.

“Can't you shut those mutts up?”

Pug Gettis cursed his wife under his breath. “You know a way to make whatever's out there disappear? Dogs ain't doin' nothin' but warnin' us 'bout trouble.”

“Well, they been yappin' since I got home. I want peace and quiet.”

Peace and quiet. He wished for the day Becky'd learn to keep quiet. Unlike his wife, Pug considered his dogs to be the finest bitches in town.

“Well?”

“I'm goin', I'm goin'.”

Pug grabbed the flashlight from the shelf on the porch in case he needed to check the treeline. Even though night hadn't fallen yet, the black storm clouds had a stranglehold on what remained of the daylight. He slipped out the door and into the heavy wind.

Damn storms seem to follow that full moon.

Pug wasn't a scaredy-cat like some of the people in town. Dave Jenner had closed up the grocery store early today. Becky hadn't been able to get her chicken salad or her potato bread. That was the first thing she'd bitched about this afternoon.

He wasn't surprised in the least to hear Jenner closed early. Dave was a full-fledged wolfman believer. Must have been the only one in town who thought Old Mike was a God-tapped messenger sent to “save us all”—even when the sheriff's boys, or that cute female deputy, came to grab Old Mike from the store during one of his rants. Dave only called after so many complaints.

The dogs' growls and barks simply ceased. The howling wind acted as their replacement. Pug stopped. He thought he saw movement in the woods. A
thwap
ping noise startled him. He looked and saw a branch from the old oak tree hammer down on the shed's roof. The girls' silence spooked his soul more than any of Old Mike's grisly tales.

Pug inched closer, sweating through his work shirt. A few light rain drops had begun to fall.

Thwap, thwap, thwap.

Now don't go getting' all superstitious out here.

Pug put his foot down. His ankle rolled and he fell to the ground. “Uhh.” His elbow jammed into his ribs. Something inside cracked.

A rash of snaps and deep crunches erupted off to the right of the dog shed where he thought he'd seen something. Pug, his eyes not being what they used to, struggled to see what was there.

“Becky…” he wheezed.

The dogs began to whimper and whine.

“Beck…Beckeeee…”

The growl he heard caused his sphincter to constrict. He dug his elbow into the mud—it sunk like a stone—and tried to pull his injured body away from the awful noise. The pain in his ribs exploded. His whimpers joined his girls'.

“Bec…Beck…Bec…”

The shadowy tree line birthed a mountain of a beast. Pug Gettis shrunk in the face of the eyes gazing at him.

“Oh…oh…oh…” his mind skipped over and over.

The half man, half beast—Dave Jenner's wolfman—raced forward and ripped him into the air by the throat. Pug heard the high whines of his girls one last time and the crack of his own neck. The world faded to black as he was dragged into the woods.

The beast barely had finished lapping the blood and gore of Pug Gettis from its mouth when it arrived at the property of Mel Murdock. The monster stepped through the trees and found the house sitting in silence. It watched as the patrol car crept past the front of the home. Deputy Randy Hines was behind the wheel.

Hello, Randy, you piece of shit.

Stan Springs never had thought much of Hines, when he was running things in this shithole town. Randy had been just another weak, kiss-ass kid who wanted to feel empowered and have the security that a gun on your hip provided.

Stan had seen plenty of them during his seventeen years as the acting sheriff of Gilson Creek. Peter Sullivan, Mitch Brennan, Kelly Hobson, Glen Richards—the list went on and on. They were all nice guys, none of whom would have lasted two seconds had they actually been placed in a critical situation. They were representatives of the law in a town like Gilson Creek for a reason. None of them would have so much as sniffed active duty in a big city.

Randy Hines, who was a Gilson Creek lifer, had been abused by his father growing up. Stan himself had to make numerous trips to the Hines home to question his parents over school reports of the multiple bruises Randy wore to class.

His mother, Lillian, was also a victim of Randy Sr. She had just been better at covering it up. Stan remembered her having fat lips, black eyes, finger imprints around her throat, and also the fact that she had a hundred obvious, made-up excuses for each wound's appearance.

Randy Sr., of course, had denied having anything to do with the visual injuries apparent on his wife and son. With neither of them willing to come forth with anything remotely resembling an accusation, Stan's hands had pretty much been tied. A head-on collision with a drunk driver killed Randy Sr. one Sunday morning during Jr.'s senior year. There was a closed-casket funeral for him that no one attended.