The Beast of Barcroft (6 page)

F
RIDAY,
N
OVEMBER 14

Ben stood on Madeleine's front step in the early morning, clutching a flashlight and staring at the green door. He had already set a can of tuna fish on the sidewalk to help lure the cat out of the house, and carried another in his pocket. He did not expect to find the door unlocked, but figured it would be worth the extra moment to check rather than climb into a window unnecessarily. To his astonishment, the doorknob turned. Then again, he thought, what idiot would break into this dump?
This idiot,
he thought ruefully. He took a last look over his shoulder at the new morning light coming over his neighbors' sleepy houses, cursed Lindsay, and stepped inside.

The smell of urine was overwhelming. “Oh, Jesus,” he said, then cursed Lindsay and Madeleine. His eyes watered and he began coughing and then his coughs turned to gags. He pulled his sweatshirt over his nose and mouth and tried to steady his breathing. The shades were drawn and the house was almost entirely dark, but he could hear a tiny stampede in the darkness and caught glimpses of small shapes darting on the outskirts of the shaft of light through the open front door.
Rats,
he thought. As he caught his breath, he cursed them too and added himself to the list for not bringing traps or bait stations. Or the marines.

He turned on his flashlight. Sweeping ahead of him, its beam revealed trash scattered on the floor, shredded newspapers, and rat droppings. Amid the filth, toward the kitchen, two eyes glowed back at him. For a moment, Ben thought it was a gigantic, brazen rat, but when he trained his beam at it, he realized it was the cat. A gray Maine coon. It was underfed and patches of hair were missing. What hair it did have was matted and probably infested with fleas. It sat there unfazed in the trash, not retreating, but not coming any closer either. Ben reached into his pocket and opened the can of tuna. He set it down gingerly.

“There's plenty more where this came from if you come outside right now. Seriously, do I even need to sell you on this?”

It turned around and walked toward the kitchen, deeper into the house.

“Come on!”

He did not want to penetrate any farther into this place. The stench was like a physical thing and he fought to suppress a rising panic. The fact that it was exactly the same structure as his own house just next door brought him no comfort. The familiar setting, overlaid with trash and feces, made it all the more nightmarish to him. It was like standing in his own front room, but after the apocalypse. But he had made a promise, and though he did not like cats, he did not like the idea of any animal alone in the dark, surrounded by rats. He followed it toward the kitchen. Then he heard a faint, rhythmic thumping, lessening in volume, a sound he had heard a thousand times, but heavier, in his own house. The cat was padding down the steps into the basement.

He followed the cat as far as the landing of the basement, across from the galley kitchen. Behind him, weak light came in through a kitchen window, revealing the silhouettes of full garbage bags and still more trash outside of them. Ahead of him, the landing, framed by a rectangle of utter black. Intermittent skittering drifted up from below. He did not even want to shine his light into it.

He chuckled. “Not on your fucking life, cat.”

Behind him, something hissed. The bags shifted and something large lunged toward him. He dodged by instinct, forgetting himself, and his foot found nothing but air. He tumbled after it into the maw.

F
RIDAY,
N
OVEMBER 14

Ben threw his arm out to the spot where the handrail would be in his own house. He found it. For a split second, he thought the fact that Madeleine's house was a dark mirror to his own saved his life, until his momentum swung him into the wall, hard, and the railing pulled free and he fell again.

He toppled sideways, sliding on his shoulder and landing at the foot of the staircase in a heap, bruised and battered, but unbroken. He shook his head. His flashlight had come to rest on the other end of the landing, pointing its beam to the center of the basement, where it illuminated what looked like a fire pit. He kicked himself over to the flashlight and grabbed it. The sound of wood creaking caused him to look up. In the weak light at the top of the staircase, a witch appeared. He shook his head, but the figure was still there, still the same. Crouching, the figure's true size and detail were hidden beneath a cape. A brimmed hat with a peak.
An honest-to-God witch,
he thought.

Before shining the light in front of him, he grabbed the handrail, now at his feet. It was more than ten feet long and unwieldy but it put something between the two of them. After fumbling with the makeshift staff, he tightened his grip on it, found his balance, and swung his flashlight up the stairs while holding his weapon. The witch stopped.

It was definitely a woman, but he wasn't sure what he was looking at. The light revealed that her cloak was more of a poncho, red and black with pictures of birds. Beads, embroidery, and fringe. And the hat she wore was more of a helmet, carved of wood. It was painted to match the poncho, and it had the face of a bird on it. Over its brim were wooden rings in a conical shape; beneath it spilled graying black hair. For a moment, the beads and fringe and sequins began to reveal themselves to him, until she held up her arm to block the beam and her butcher knife reflected the light back at him dully.

“Get that light out of my damn face,” she said.

“No!” he yelled.
Is that the best you can do?
he thought. “Put the knife down!”

“I think not.”

At second glance, he saw it wasn't a butcher knife but a dagger. Double-edged with a wooden handle carved in the shape of a bird's head. A solitary gem was inlaid for the bird's eye. In his beam, it seemed to glare at him, angry. In the darkness, he heard the skittering, then a thump. He flashed his light wildly into the basement. Rats darted from his beam. He had hoped his cursory sweep would eliminate the possibility that there were more people down here, but the piles of junk could have hidden anything. He quickly swung the light back up to the top of the stairs.

“You're jumpy, boy.”

“Lady, so help me God, I am not going to die in this fucking pit. Put the knife down.”

“I'll whistle for my dog.” The brim of her helmetlike hat hid her eyes, but he saw her smile. The smile, with no eyes, no context, made his blood run cold. Without the eyes, her smile was a secret.
I know something you don't know
.

His quick glance around the basement revealed that it was identical to his own, structurally at least. There were a couple of windows, but they were small and their lowest edges were four feet off the ground. He would never get through them quickly enough to avoid a knife in his back. The only way out was up. Past her. Or through her. He tightened his grip on the railing.

He had never been more terrified, not even face-to-face with the cougar. At least then he was out in the open. Then he could have screamed and someone might hear. But this, he thought. This was a dungeon. Though it was just after dawn, it was still entirely dark in the basement save for some faint light coming through a transom window across the room. And it occurred to him that he had flushed the meds that might have kept him calm. There was no more of an outside-looking-in feeling, the clinical distance they afforded. He was in this situation, fully present, unbearably so, for the first time in months. His panic threatened to overwhelm him until he felt a familiar rush. His old friend tapping him on the shoulder. Anger.

He wedged the end of the railing against a stair a few steps below her feet, then swung the full weight of his body to the left. The railing bent around a support column a third of the way up its length. It did not give.

He heard the woman back a step.

“What are you doing?”

He swung the full weight of his body around the fulcrum of the support, grunting. The basement came alive with sounds. The squealing and skittering of rats fleeing. When it did not give, he tried again, yelling. He heard it splinter, then cranked on it madly until the long spear of a railing gave way to panic, adrenaline, and rage. Now it was halved, a more manageable length. He brandished it like a club, and with his other hand, pointed the flashlight at her.

“Lady, I don't know who you are or what you're doing here. I'm leaving and if you try to stop me I will break this over your head and leave you to the rats.”

“You're trespassing.”

“Trespassing? Who the fuck are
you
?”

“I'm her mother.”

“Bullshit,” he said, but he dropped his club an inch. “I heard her mother died in a crash or something.”

“Her father too, but I raised her. I'm her mother. We're blood now.”

“So why are you dressed like you're in a cult?”

“You're in my daughter's house. I don't answer to you.”

“Look…I saw the cat in the window. I thought it was trapped and I just came in to set it free. That's all.”

“The cat.”

“Why else would I be here?”

“I don't understand why any of you did what you did to Madeleine.”

“I didn't do shit to her. Turn on the lights.”

“No electricity.” Again, the smile. It gave him the shivers.

He shone the flashlight quickly around the basement again. Most of the rats didn't even bother to flee it now. He was the intruder. The makeshift fire pit in the center of the basement drew his beam for a second, but he could not afford to let it linger. He pointed it back up the stairs.

As soon as she backed away from the rectangle at the top of the steps, she would be out of sight. She could be around any corner then. He hated it, but the best way to keep a knife out of his neck was to get her into the basement with him, where he could see her.

“All right. Come down.”

“You come up.”

“I don't trust you, you don't trust me. One thing you
can
trust is that I want out of this dungeon.”

“I'm not taking a step with that light in my eyes.”

It seemed a fair concession. He trained the beam at her center mass instead of her face.

She walked down the stairs, knife at her side. He kept the beam trained on it as he moved deeper into the dark interior of the basement. He backed to the rim of the fire pit, making room for her. When she reached the bottom, where he had landed in a heap, he backed in a semicircle around the pit, putting it between the two of them.

They were level now and he studied her more closely. He had expected a crone. Bent fingers with talonlike hands, no teeth, warts on the nose…yet beneath the strange garb, she appeared normal. Jeans and sneakers. From glances at the parts of her face not hidden by the shadow of the hat's brim, she appeared middle-aged, no more than fifty. She even looked familiar. No flying monkeys, no bubbling cauldron.
Just rats and a fire pit,
he thought.
Close enough.

“I've seen you before,” Ben said. “You were at the last couple of community meetings, weren't you?”

Silence.

“How long have you been here?”

He dropped the beam onto the fire pit for a moment. The light revealed photographs and what appeared to be figurines—wooden carvings—scattered around its rim. He could not make them out, but he could not afford to dwell on them.

“What's all this?”

“I'm in mourning, asshole.”

He swept the beam over her attire. “Interesting way of doing it.”

“I don't have to explain my ceremonies to you.”

“You do when the ceremony includes pushing me down a flight of stairs.”

“I didn't touch you, jumpy boy.” She lifted the knife slowly, pointing it at him. Her eyes were hard and shone like diamonds. “Besides, that's the least of your worries right now.”

She mentioned a dog,
he thought.

“Come on.” He beckoned her closer. “Ring around the rosie. Nice and slow.”

“Why should I do what you ask?”

“Fine. Call 911 and report me for trespassing. We can wait together or you can save us both the headache.”

She snorted, but she followed, and together they encircled the pit, reversing positions. The rectangle of light at the top of the stairs was still faint, but brighter. He felt the stirrings of hope when something brushed against his leg. Without thinking, he jumped to the side and shone the light at the spot.

It was the cat. In its mouth was a dead rat, half its size. Gooseflesh erupted on his skin.

Laughter floated at him from the other side of the pit. “You wanted him, jumpy boy.”

He stomped his foot and the cat darted up the stairs, taking its prize with him. He started after it.

“Fine,” she called after him. “ ‘Set it free.' Take it. You think it'll make a difference?”

“It's better off out there than in here.”

“Not with the cat, jumpy boy. With you.” She showed him her teeth again in a leer. Again, the smile. Again, it filled him with dread.

He shone the light into her eyes again as he mounted the steps. She blocked the light with her forearm.

“You think it'll show you any mercy? A small kindness for a small kindness?” She laughed bitterly. “Maybe it'll save you for last.”

He bounded for the rectangle of light.

“Have a nice day,” he called over his shoulder.

F
RIDAY,
N
OVEMBER 14

The slide projected on the auditorium's screen was an artist's depiction of a wolf on its hind legs, its forelegs embracing a woman's waist. They were flanked by two men in tricornes, one with a musket, the other a spear. The wolf's teeth were bared and its tongue protruded from its mouth as if mocking the woman's defenders. In the background, villagers ran terrified across the countryside as another wolf disemboweled a second woman.

“So, in a three-year period, this beast—or beasts—reportedly racked up over two hundred attacks, with over one hundred kills,” said Richard Severance. “Pretty impressive stats, really.”

The crowd laughed.

As Lindsay slipped into the auditorium, the slide on the screen changed to an eighteenth-century engraving of another wolf. Severance saw her from the podium and smiled at her. It reminded her of the first wolf.

She scanned the room; no one had noticed her enter. All eyes were riveted to the speaker. When they weren't rapt, they were cracking up. She hated to admit it, but after last night, she thought,
that
is how you work a crowd.

Severance stood at the podium in a gray suit and jacket with no tie. She imagined he was in his late forties, but with his sandy blond hair and impish grin, it was hard to pinpoint. He was an amateur cryptozoologist—
Is there any other kind?
thought Lindsay—but he held court at the National Zoo whenever he wasn't traveling. He was beloved among the staff, even though no one particularly believed him. Friday was a training day for the new docents, who heard lectures on everything from safety policies to care of the animals, and Severance was the final speaker. It always amazed Lindsay that the zoo allowed him to present to those who would give guided tours, but the director loved him and he was a bit of harmless fun, and he held attention with ease. After a long day of administrative training, who would not want to cleanse the palate with a PowerPoint presentation on Bigfoot?

It also did not hurt that he was a massive donor.

“The precise death count is disputed,” continued Severance, “but we do know that this was no fairy tale. Many, many attacks occurred, and the creature in question caused so much hysteria in the Gévaudan province of France that it even drew the attention of
this
guy,” he said, and an image of a painting of a bewigged noble appeared on the screen, “my esteemed and distant relative, King Louis XV.”

Severance offered his profile to the crowd, mimicking the king's pose in the slide. He jutted his chin. The crowd laughed again.

“Anyway, the countryside was in such an uproar that King Louis rolled off his mistresses long enough to dispatch professional wolf hunters to kill the Beast of Gévaudan. After months of killing wolves, the Lieutenant of the Hunt, François Antoine, killed a particularly large wolf and declared victory. Some of the locals who had seen the beast or survived attacks corroborated specific markings on its hide and the villagers celebrated. Antoine stuffed the beast and returned to Paris a conquering hero.”

Severance tapped his pointer and the screen changed to another engraving of a stuffed wolf, regarded by a man in a tricorne, surrounded by a crowd of more men in long wigs and grandiloquent women.

“Who here has seen
Jaws
?” asked Severance.

All of the hands in the auditorium shot up.

“This would be the part of the movie when they catch the smaller shark and reopen the beaches.”

The crowd murmured in anticipation.

“Another beast attacks two children then goes on another year-and-a-half rampage. Finally, a local hunter, Jean Chastel, killed a second wolf. And legend has it that Chastel shot the beast with”—he reached into his breast pocket—“this.” He produced a small, shining object and held it aloft between his thumb and forefinger.

“A silver bullet.”

The crowd gasped.

“Our beast—and a French author with a flair for the dramatic—is where that little bit of lore originated. I'm inclined to believe that it wasn't so much the composition of the bullet as its velocity, but that's just me.”

He tossed it to an attractive young lady in the first row. She caught it.

“See? Harmless. But killing
this
wolf finally seemed to do the trick. This beast allegedly had human remains in its stomach. Reports of attacks stopped. And nothing bad ever happened in France again.”

Richard took a sip from a bottle of water and waited until the laughter died down.

“To this day, no one knows for sure what the beast—or beasts—was. It has been described as resembling a bear, hyena, wolf, panther, and any combination thereof, and as large as a horse. A long snout like that of a wolf, pig, or greyhound is another common feature of most accounts, with a long tail that the creature could use as a weapon. And, of course, fearsome teeth.

“The most widely accepted theory is that it was a pair of wolves or a pack of wolves. Other theories include mastiffs, boars, and hyenas. Theories also include hybrids, crosses between dogs or wolves. Even a mesonychid, a nasty prehistoric mammal the size of a horse, that didn't get the memo that it was extinct. There are even more outlandish, supernatural theories involving a demon. And, of course, a werewolf. The point is, no one can be entirely
certain,
and that's why these deaths are not known as ‘the Well-Documented and Empirically Proven French Wolf Attacks of the 1760s.' It has become known as ‘the Beast of Gévaudan.' It's a legend. But make no mistake, it's a legend that most definitely occurred.

“You see, that's what cryptozoology is all about. From the Greek
kryptos,
meaning ‘hidden,' and
zoology,
the ‘study of animals.' ” He spread his arms, gesturing at the assemblage. “I would never pretend to be a scientist or presume to tell you your business, but just as
UFO
means unidentified flying object and
not
alien spacecraft, cryptids are not always Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. Cryptids are simply animals that haven't been discovered yet…”

He gestured to the screen, which displayed a bright green lizard with golden flecks.

“Like the
Varanus bitatawa
here, the golden spotted monitor, recently discovered in the Philippines. A six-foot lizard, already well known to locals, but just discovered by scientists.”

The screen flashed to a black-and-white photo of a fisherman holding aloft a prehistoric fish.

“Cryptids can be animals that have made a reappearance, like the coelacanth here, rediscovered in 1938 off the coast of South Africa when an ordinary angler caught it.”

A mountain lion superimposed on a map of the northern United States appeared.

“Cryptids can be animals way outside of their normal range. Like the unfortunate mountain lion from North Dakota who went on a walkabout only to get struck and killed by a car…in Connecticut.”

He looked at Lindsay and raised an eyebrow.

She smirked.

“Cryptids live where the unreal meets the real. Where science shines a light into the dark corners of legend. Where folklore becomes fact. You want to know what I think the Beast of Gévaudan truly was?
I don't care
. Sure, part of me desperately wants to know its true identity, but a larger part of me, the more romantic part, desperately does not. Our civilization has the ability to explore the deepest ocean trenches now. We can travel to the stars and back. With our ever-evolving technology, pushing farther and farther toward our frontiers is becoming easier and easier. And as we do, we will continue to have a rash of discoveries. Until we won't. They'll slow to a trickle, then dry up completely. Every legend will have been classified and categorized, demystified and defanged. The best we'll be able to hope for…is a zoo.”

The crowd groaned. He held up his hands. “Cheap shot, sorry. We share the same mission. Conservancy. But I'm an amateur. A dilettante. Hell, other cryptozoologists don't even like me, but I ask you this: What brought you into this business? What sparked your imagination as a child? Did you hide under the covers as a kid, flashlight in hand, reading about the ‘leadership of winter mixed-species flocks' in the
International Journal of Zoology
? Or was it closer to this?”

The next slide was a painting of an enormous squid attacking a barque, its gigantic eyes staring wide, its tentacles curling around the masts up to the topsails.

“I'm not preaching ignorance here.”

Next, a picture of another giant squid wrapped around Jules Verne's
Nautilus
.

“It's your business to know everything, and Lord knows, I support it.”

A black-and-white photograph of a group of men standing on a beach, surrounding the remains of a giant squid. Its mantle was the size of a man.

“I know I'm preaching to the choir here, but in our relentless drive forward, I'm saying sometimes a little mystery, a little romance, is good. It may just inspire the next great conservationist. Or at the very least, the next amateur cryptozoologist. For those of you not swayed by my presentation or dazzled by my charm, I'll leave you with one last clip.”

The screen turned black and a video came on. The footage came from a fishing boat. Excited Japanese voices shouted over one another in the background as a massive red shape could be seen undulating next to the boat, just below the surface. Tentacles coiled around the cable hauling it to the surface. A giant squid, alive, captured on video.

“After the initial thrill of seeing this for the first time, do you want to know what I thought?”

He tapped his pointer a final time and the giant screen went black.

“I thought ‘one less sea monster.' ”

The crowd applauded. After he shook hands with the excited docents, Severance found Lindsay by the doors.

“Lindsay Clark, I knew you couldn't stay away.”

“You make the most persuasive case for pseudoscience I've ever heard, Richard.”

“If you only had an imagination, you'd be unstoppable.”

“If you only had scientific rigor, you'd be a real zoologist.”

He smiled. “Backhanded compliments I can take, but don't call my rigor into question.”

“Simmer down. I actually stopped by on business. I was at a community meeting in Arlington last night where someone reported a mountain lion attacking his dog.”

“Arlington, Virginia?”

“I went to the site—fur, prints—it's the real deal.
Puma concolor
. And big.”

“That's fun.”

“I don't think
fun
is the word. It snapped a full-grown greyhound's neck in a resident's backyard and nearly came back for seconds on the guy.”

“No, that's
really
fun. Why are you telling me?”

“I don't know. Maybe I figured this might be another anecdote to spice up your campfire stories.”

“Is the institution getting involved?”

“Arlington hasn't officially approached the Smithsonian yet, and knowing who is involved, I doubt they will. I'm on my way to talk to Curator Bankbridge.”

“Well, all this is very fascinating. You and I should buckle down immediately over lunch and a few cocktails and discuss your…kitty.”

“I don't like empty calories.” She turned to walk away.

“Hey,” he called after her.

She awaited his next innuendo with a smirk.

“Sample?”

“Of course.”

“May I?”

She dug into her shoulder bag and handed over a clear plastic bag filled with tufts of hair.

He studied it and frowned at her. “Lindsay, if I had feelings, they'd be hurt right now. You think I don't know a hoax when I see one?”

He tossed it back to her.

“Nice try, Clark.”

“What are you talking about?” She held the bag up to the light. Even jumbled together, there appeared to be two distinct fur samples, one shorter and flat, the other longer and coarser. They were both darker than mountain lion fur, darker than Ben's description of his greyhound too.

“Wait, this is a mistake.”

“Yes, yours.” He turned on his heel.

“Richard!” she called after him, then quieter, said, “I wouldn't do that to you.”

He stopped and sighed. “Was it dark? Were there cocktails involved?”

“Come on, I know
Puma concolor
fur when I see it, and
Puma concolor
was in here last night.”

“Then someone is pranking
you
.”

“No one even knows about this.”

“I'd keep it that way. You'd hate to look like a pseudoscientist.”

“Why would someone do that?” she said, more to herself.

“Welcome to my world.”

“Someone switching out my mountain lion sample and replacing it with two different fur samples? That's ridiculous.”

“More ridiculous than you being wrong, certainly.”

“It was
Puma concolor,
I swear.”

“Very fascinating, but I wouldn't ask Bankbridge to commit zoo resources—and by extension
my
resources—until you get your ducks in a row.” He did an about-face and strolled back down the corridor. “Or in this case, your otters.”

“What?”

“Your sample. It's not two animals, it's one.
Enhydra
lutris
.”

“Sea otter?”

“The longer hairs are the guard hairs, the shorter are the underfur.”

“You can tell that just by looking?”

“That's me at half rigor.
Au revoir
.”