The Banshee (6 page)

Nancy shrugged and walked toward the car. David scanned the yard once again then joined her, never noticing the large cloven prints embedded into the earth along the fence.

The doctor approached Andy's remains on the stainless steel examination table and began to remove the tattered pieces of uniform that clung to the wounds. He looked briefly at the torn chest cavity and wondered who or what could have done that, or why?

Carl remembered back when Calvin Peters was torn open by a bear he surprised going through the garbage. His wounds were not as ferocious. Calvin lived to tell about it. The doorbell interrupted his thoughts. Murphy was holding another black bag.

“I just started the exam, come on in.” Carl motioned with a wave of his hand for Murphy to enter.

Murphy carried the bag to the oversize sink and placed it in. “When you're finished with Andy you can start on the Collins girl.”

“Is that her?

Murphy nodded.

“Where did you find her?”

“Your nephew did, in a rain barrel inside the barn; a fly-infested goddamn barrel.”

“Same condition as Andy, I suppose,” Carl assumed.

“Worse.”

“I'll do my best and as quickly as possible. I have a pot of coffee in the kitchen if you want to wait?”

“Thanks, I could use a cup right about now,” Murphy said walking from the examination room in the rear of the house to the adjoining kitchen. He poured himself a large mug of black and hot coffee. He sipped it, allowing the liquid melt away the tension in almost every muscle of his body.

It seemed as though he had just sat down when he realized he had poured his third cup and the afternoon quickly became evening. He went back to the exam room and found Carl by the sink washing his hands. On the examination table laid two forms covered by a single white sheet with growing red stains at different places.

“I'll write up your reports as soon as I can,” Carl said, wiping his hands on a towel. His voice was tired.

“I'll read the report later. I need answers and I need them now. What killed them?”

Carl sighed and tossed the towel into a laundry bin, “My opinion…some kind of animal. Claw and teeth marks, almost every bone broken, a few even gnawed on.”

“An animal, what kind of animal…?” Murphy asked, watching the red stain spreading along the white sheet covering Andy.

“Can't rightly say, think we need an expert to take a look. The teeth marks are characteristic of a bear but the claw damage is different, never seen it before. Big animal though”

“How big?”

“Ballpark estimate I'd have to say ‘round six, seven hundred pounds.”

“Jesus, that shoots my wild dog theory to hell.” Murphy wiped his brow.

“I'm sorry, that's all I have for now.”

“Thanks,” Murphy shook Carl's hand, “I appreciate your effort. I just don't know how I am going to break the news to the Collins family.”

“A terrible business, perhaps you should ask Father Ahern to assist?”

Charles Murphy considered his advice then thought against it. “By the time I get Father Ahern over to the Collins home, they may have already heard the news from the neighborhood grapevine. I'm sure the rumors are already spreading. I think I better tell them and soon.”

“I wish you luck. If I can be of any assistance…”

“Thanks, I'll be in touch.”

* * * *

Murphy climbed the stairs of the closed town hall and opened the front door with his key. He flicked on the hallway lights and opened the door on the right with his name stenciled on it. He went to his desk and sat. It was emotionally draining to accept the horror of the murdered child and his friend. It was surreal, it could not have happened, but he knew it did.

Charles's first priority right now was to notify Mike Collins, then make a call to Andy's only family, his girlfriend, April. Murphy leaned back in his chair with his feet upon the cluttered desk and stared at the chipped ceiling paint. He struggled for a sincere way to express his hurt…a hurt he knew was absolutely nil compared to the pain the Collins's were about to endure.

There was no easy way to tell Michael Collins his baby daughter had been torn to shreds. Murphy was sure the news of the deaths had spread throughout the town, but he hoped they'd been suppressed long enough so he could break it to the Collins family. He dialed the phone, still contemplating the words he would utter when a young voice spoke into the receiver.

“Hello?”

“This is Chief Murphy, is this Mark?”

“Have you found Cathy?” Mark asked without answering.

Murphy almost whispered, “is your father home?”

Mark placed the phone down and shortly Mike Collins was on the phone, as excited as his son. “Did you find her, Chief?”

“Mike…” Charles hesitated and was sorry he did. He knew that split second of indecision alerted Mike to disaster. “Yes, we found her.”

His voice could no longer offer hope or good news. The child was dead and there was no easy way to tell the father. The phone was silent for a few moments then Mike returned with faint sniffles and a crack in his voice.

“She's dead?”

“I'm sorry, Mike. I did not know how to tell you. I called before you heard it from somewhere else.”

“How…?”

“The doc did an examination this afternoon and -”

“This afternoon…” interrupted Mike angrily. “How long have you had her?”

“We found her this morning after we found Andy's body.”

“Andy? Andy is dead also?”

“Both were found on the old Johnson place, we have no idea how they got there or who did it. The doc seems to believe it was a large animal.”

More silence followed by sobs.

“I'm sorry, Chief. I didn't realize.”

“I'm the one who is sorry, Mike,” Murphy whispered into the phone.

“Thank you for calling. I should be the one to tell my family.”

Murphy hung up thinking Mike had more courage than he would have at a moment like that. He stood and stretched, flicked off the office lights and walked out onto the empty sidewalk.

Father Ahern leaned against one of the many trees lining the cornfield and adjusted his collar against the oncoming chill. Not necessarily from the night air but from the evil it contained, a sensation raising the neatly cropped hair on the back of his neck.

He began to feel this night's search would also prove fruitless and decided to return to the rectory. Mrs. Donnelly would surely be surprised at his earlier than usual return. He heard the noise when making his way through the underbrush back to the road.

“Saints protect us,” he whispered, making the sign of the cross. Glancing back to the cornfield, he tried to make out the direction of the sound. It came again, nearer, and his ears strained to place it. He focused his senses on the field before him, remaining silent within the underbrush. He contemplated if he should remain or run like the wind back to the rectory but decided caution was the correct procedure, not panic.

Listening intently after each step, he tried to pinpoint the direction of the sound. God only knew how many nights he had walked this forest but he suddenly realized how alone and vulnerable he was.

There was no set of guidelines for such a thing. What would he do if he found them, or it? The crucifix and small bible would certainly help and the vial of holy water was necessary, but he had no concrete plan. How could he have a plan? It was a problem to solve as it unfolded. He became frightened, very frightened.

Slowly he moved through the underbrush, cautiously placing each step down. It wasn't long until the sound came again, this time near him. Adrenaline pumped to his heart. He ran, faster and faster through the brush, bouncing off small trees, careening through thickets and brush not seen until too late.

He could not feel his clothing tearing or his skin torn by the brush and tree limbs that reached out for him. He ran faster, hoping nothing was following.

Finally, the church steeple appeared with the dark field of the cemetery beside it. The headstones stood like uneven stone teeth waiting to gobble any unsuspecting soul that venture near.

The priest continued his run through the cemetery and along the pathway up to the back door. He burst into the kitchen, startling Mrs. Donnelly. She screamed, dropping the cup of tea, sending it crashing to the floor.

“Before you ask,” Father Ahern said while gasping for air, “the answer to your pending question is no, I did not find what I was looking for.”

“Look at you, Father, your clothes in a shambles; your arms bleeding. What has happened to you?” Mrs. Donnelly asked, near shock. “You look as though you've wrestled with a lion.”

“I would have feared a lion less, Mrs. Donnelly. The darkness frightened me, hence, I ran. Obviously my clothing and flesh have suffered the consequences.”

“Frightened of what?” The aged housekeeper sat next to him.

“I really have no answer, Mrs. Donnelly, but I can assure you that I was frightened.

“Father,” she said, taking his hand, as a mother would console her son. Her eyes were tired but sincere. “Is this fear that overwhelmed you tonight connected with your nightly excursions?”

“I don't understand?” he answered, knowing what she meant and what she was trying to get out of him.

“What you search for night after night. Does it have to do with what happened to you tonight? The fear that sent you running through what looks like every thorn bush in the forest, is what you have sought all these years the cause of that fear?”

He stood with his back to her; he did not want her to know of the evil he hunted. She was close to learning the truth and it would put her in harm's way. No, he would not tell her.

“Mrs. Donnelly,” he said, “what I felt this evening was no more than childish fear of the dark, nothing more than that.”

“Childish fear of the dark indeed!” she stammered, bending to the floor to pick up pieces of the shattered teacup. She knew he was lying and felt betrayed that he would not confide in her.

“I am going to change and shower,” he said, leaving the kitchen, “please bring a cup of tea to my study.”

Murphy needed fresh air and time to think. He left the office, turning off the lights as he went. On the sidewalk, he pondered the events of the day while walking without direction.

He found himself opposite Kelly's where the usual banter spilled out into the night. Murphy's mind persisted in reminding his body how weary he was. He considered resting and to cease pushing himself for answers.

There was still a lot to do: begin the process of forms and reports, and arrange for Andy's family to retrieve his remains. Yet he craved sleep along with answers to mounting questions of things that seemed to be getting worse. He had to keep a clear head.

Passing Whiting Field, Murphy saw the shadowy shape of the bleachers. An image of little Cathy Collin's mangled body spilled from the overturned barrel entered his mind. He tried hard to shake it away, wanting instead to concentrate on the peaceful night and the sound of the crickets.

Murphy checked the doors of the closed shops as he passed, ensuring they were secured. It was at the Hardware store when he first noticed the silence.

Scanning the street, he found no movement or sound. The crickets no longer made their steady drone and the cool night air had become humid and sticky. He turned towards a scratching sound from a nearby doorway. It grew louder as he approached. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. The noise ceased, followed by a low growl.

Murphy froze in a crouched position, ready to pounce on an intruder, or be pounced upon.

Goddamn dog
, he thought, relaxing his stance but kept his hand near the holstered revolver on his belt.
Feel like I'm looking for the boogieman.

Then he saw something, a shadow at first, and then a solid form, large, distorted, horrible. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Was the perspiration dripping from his forehead blurring his vision? Was he seeing things?

He stood, unable to move. Only his eye muscles responded and followed the beast. It left the doorway, crossed the street and brazenly entered the darkness of the field, but not before looking back at Murphy with eyes that blazed. It seemed to urge Murphy to follow.

Come on, Chief of Police, catch me, I dare you

Then it disappeared into the darkness. Murphy remained in the middle of the street for a few moments. Perspiration soaked his shirt. His mouth hung open in disbelief. The return of the crickets snapped him from the hypnotic state. He ran as fast as he could back to the police office and dialed Keith's home phone.

“Hello?” a tired voice answered.

“Keith, get to the office right now.” Murphy spoke quickly between gasps for air.

“I just sat down with Mary Ellen for dinner.”

“Damn it, Keith. I just saw the thing that killed Andy,” Murphy was almost yelling into the phone.

“I'm on my way,” Keith said, hanging up.

* * * *

When he entered the office fifteen minutes later, Keith found Murphy at his desk with a shotgun on his lap.

“Let's go,” he said handing Keith the shotgun, “it's got a head start.”

“What's got a head start? What are we looking for, Chief?”

“Believe me, when you see this thing you'll know it's what we are looking for. And listen, don't hesitate, shoot to kill.”

Murphy drove the patrol car to the approximate spot where he saw the beast enter the field. They got out and followed the headlights' illumination.

“It came this way.” Murphy pointed his flashlight onto the deep prints embedded into the grass, three digits protruding from a triangular shaped foot, an obvious talon at each tip.

Keith placed his size eleven shoe next to the print and directed the light onto the flattened print of the animal and his shoe next to it, showing the obvious contrast in size. The print was double his shoe. “Damn, look at that.”

“Let's go,” Murphy said, noting the difference.

They continued following their flashlights with worn batteries. Keith aimed his light in a sweeping motion then back to the tracks. “It's getting hot.”

Murphy felt the sweat begin to bead again on his forehead, “Keep your eyes open.”

They stopped where the tracks ended, by the Oak tree.

“Must have crossed here, probably halfway to Canada by now.” Keith relaxed.

Murphy continued to sweep his light across the brush and high grass of the streams bank with the same results. They noticed the air cooled again. Murphy felt exhausted and defeated. “Maybe the stress of the murders has got me hallucinating.”

“You gotta get some shut eye, Chief.”

Keith recognized the spent facial expression on his boss, due to the turmoil brewing inside. His wife missing, a friend mutilated, and a small child horribly killed, now he was hallucinating.

“You're right. I'm going to get some rest. Go home and have your dinner, tell Mary Ellen I'm sorry I interrupted.”

Murphy drove the patrol car slowly off the field. Its headlights shone on the backside of Major Whiting's statute. Their progress watched was by two fiery eyes within the aged limbs of the Oak tree on the bank of the river.